


All the Days

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Foot Jobs, Grinding, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Honeymoon, Intercrural Sex, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Married Couple, Masturbation, Mirror Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Ocean Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex, Swimming, Topping from the Bottom, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I don’t think people usually get married more than once,' Takeshi says, dragging the weight of his attention up the line of Hayato’s suit jacket to the pale silver of his hair gleaming to almost white under the illumination. 'At least not to the same person.'" Takeshi and Hayato find married life immediately and intensely rewarding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Familiar

Takeshi’s head is spinning by the time the party winds down enough for he and Hayato make their exit. There was dinner, and a good one, but there was also an array of champagne glasses and an endless series of toasts and congratulations and laughter, and even when the weight of the doors close behind them to cut off the wave of sound in their wake Takeshi’s thoughts are hazy, the overstimulation of the party leaving his head ringing with afterimages of the day like memories too aggressive to wait until they’re called up in future consideration. He can taste champagne still lingering on his tongue, can catch the sweet of the cake still clinging to his lips, can feel his whole face aching from smiling so hard for so long; and then there’s Hayato’s hand in his, the casual press of fingers interlaced with his own so Takeshi can feel the weight of the only ring on his fingers, today, and maybe it’s that that is keeping him so distant from reality, the conscious awareness of the metal on Hayato’s finger to match the unusual weight of the jewelry on his own.

“I’m exhausted,” Hayato says without turning around, apparently oblivious to Takeshi’s extended consideration of his fingers and the way the lighting in the hotel hallway catches at the gold of his one piece of jewelry. “Let’s never do that again.”

Takeshi smiles down at Hayato’s wrist, tightens his fingers against the other’s hand. “I don’t think people usually get married more than once,” he says, dragging the weight of his attention up the line of Hayato’s suit jacket to the pale silver of his hair gleaming to almost white under the illumination. “At least not to the same person.”

“Don’t be logical at me,” Hayato tells him, still without looking back. He’s fumbling in his pocket for the key to their room as they approach the door; his hold on Takeshi’s hand is nearly an afterthought, like he’s letting Takeshi cling to him rather than actively making the effort himself. “Weren’t you telling everyone how tipsy you were five minutes ago?”

“I am,” Takeshi admits, taking an extra step forward as Hayato pauses in front of their door so he can crowd himself into the other’s personal space, so near he can press his lips against the tangle the night has made of Hayato’s hair. “My head’s all fuzzy.”

“Is it,” Hayato says. The door clicks open and he pushes at the weight of it, stepping into the dark of their hotel room and away from the idle contact of Takeshi’s mouth against his hair. His fingers slide free of Takeshi’s hand, he shakes off the connection like it isn’t there at all, and Takeshi reaches for him again, following Hayato into the dimly-lit room without taking the time to consider their surroundings.

“Come back,” he pleads, half-laughing and half-begging. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

“You’ve been right next to me for hours,” Hayato tells him, but he doesn’t shrug away when Takeshi gets his arm around the other’s shoulders, and Takeshi is pretty sure that’s the start of a smile on what he can see of Hayato’s mouth. “Did the champagne make you blind as well?”

“No,” Takeshi says, pressing his mouth to Hayato’s shoulder and breathing past the lingering edge of cologne on the other’s skin to the warm gunpowder bite of Hayato himself under it. “You look amazing.”

A hand comes up, Hayato’s fingers reaching across to brush against the line of Takeshi’s jacket as he twists in the other’s hold. “Yeah,” he says, agreement rather than a question as his hand fits against the line of Takeshi’s waist. Takeshi imagines he can feel the weight of Hayato’s ring through the barrier of the fabric, can feel it pressing warm reassurance into his skin. “Well. I had to look as least as good as my idiot husband, right?”

“Oh,” Takeshi breathes, the air in his lungs going to steam at the casual appellation, at the title fitting so easily on Hayato’s lips. “ _Hayato_.”

“Not that you were my husband this morning,” Hayato goes on. Takeshi can hear the smile under the words, can see the shadow of it forming at Hayato’s lips. “I was taking preemptive measures.” His free hand comes up to trail along the edge of Takeshi’s undone jacket; Takeshi takes a breath, shudders on heat in his exhale, and Hayato’s fingers curl around his tie, the other’s thumb smoothing over the fabric with a gentleness far better suited to the quality of the clothing than the casual disregard Takeshi has been displaying towards it. “I could have sabotaged you, I guess, instead of helping you get dressed. It would serve you right for not learning how to tie your own damn tie.”

“Thank you,” Takeshi says again, and he just means for the tie but it comes out hot with weight on his tongue, and he’s leaning in for Hayato’s mouth, his whole body tipping forward as if Hayato is magnetized and Takeshi’s blood is pure iron. “Hayato.”

“God,” Hayato blurts, a spill of reaction more to carry the heat of his voice than any true meaning, and his hold on Takeshi’s tie vanishes, replaced instead with his hand bracing against the back of the other’s neck to draw him down. Takeshi’s sighing satisfaction even before Hayato kisses him, exhaling the warmth of relief as the other’s lips graze his, and then Hayato’s mouth is against his properly and Takeshi’s attention for anything else gives way. He leans closer, lifts his arm around Hayato’s shoulders to pull him in, and Hayato is licking against his mouth and sucking at his lip and Takeshi’s dizzy with the pleasure of it, with the happiness so sharp in him it’s a physical ache in his chest.

Hayato pulls back. “The light,” he says, his voice dropping to the growl that flares Takeshi hot all over his body, that sends him shuddering boneless against the support of Hayato’s shoulders. “Turn the light on, I can’t see you like this.”

“Right,” Takeshi agrees, but he doesn’t move, he can’t make himself pull away from the fit of his mouth against Hayato’s lips, from breathing in the heat of the air off Hayato’s skin. Hayato purrs something against his mouth, protest or amusement alike make unintelligible by proximity, and then he pushes backwards to force Takeshi over the few steps back to the door. Takeshi’s shoulders hit the support, his breathing knocked out of him more from Hayato’s insistence than the gentle impact, and Hayato lets him go so he can fumble for the lightswitch instead. It flicks on, drenching the room in soft gold light, and when Takeshi blinks his eyes into focus against the bright the illumination is catching at Hayato’s hair, haloing the pale strands and glowing bright at the shoulders of his dark coat.

“Come here,” Hayato tells him, his eyes so dark Takeshi can barely see the green in them, and when he pulls against Takeshi’s neck Takeshi comes, tipping forward with an obedience to that voice so instinct-deep it requires no conscious thought at all. Hayato smiles into the kiss, hums satisfaction against Takeshi’s mouth, and Takeshi can’t breathe, can’t keep his eyes open or his attention where it should be as Hayato’s hand slides under the open weight of his jacket to press his shirt flush to his skin. He leans forward, rocking his weight into the support of Hayato’s shoulders, and Hayato purrs and trails his fingers up Takeshi’s shirt to fit into the knot of his tie.

“You clean up well,” he observes, dragging at the silk-slick give of the fabric over itself while Takeshi slides his hands up into Hayato’s hair to push the curtain of it back from the other’s face. “Shame you’re incapable of dressing yourself without my help.”

“You’re just so much better at it,” Takeshi offers, retreating to the relative safety of compliments in the face of the distraction of Hayato’s fingers sliding the knot of his tie loose with far more ease and care than Takeshi ever bothers with on his own. His skin is prickling hot, like the carbonation from the champagne has crept under his skin and is sparkling from the inside out.

Hayato winds the loose end of the tie around one hand, draws it free of Takeshi’s collar in a single slick motion. “That’s because I can care about more than one thing at once,” he says, reaching behind Takeshi to drape the tie over the handle of the door behind them before reaching for the collar of the other’s coat and tugging it free of his to join the tie around the handle. “Unlike you, baseball idiot.”

“I care about more things than baseball,” Takeshi protests without heat, because Hayato is sliding his fingers under Takeshi’s collar and catching at the button pressed tight to his throat, and it’s hard to even remember what he’s saying with Hayato’s focus so close against his skin. Hayato takes a step back, dragging against the delicate hold he has on Takeshi’s collar, and Takeshi stumbles forward, tilting his head back as he goes to give Hayato a better angle on what he’s doing. “I care about you.”

“I hope you do,” Hayato drawls, teasing instead of prickly as Takeshi’s button comes free, easing the tension at the other’s throat while Hayato’s fingers slide down to the next. “It’d be a shame if I just signed myself up for a loveless marriage, after all.” The buttons fall open fast, after the first; by the time Hayato is backing up against the bed Takeshi’s shirt is more than half undone, the edges of the fabric falling open to the graceful rhythm of Hayato’s fingers.

“No,” Takeshi says, getting his hands on Hayato’s hips under the weight of his coat so he can brace him steady as they tip back onto the bed, Hayato going down smoothly and Takeshi toppling in over him with more haste than elegance. He gets his knee up against Hayato’s hip, rocks his weight forward, and Hayato catches him as they start to fall, braces his hands at Takeshi’s waist for a moment to hold them both steady. “Definitely not.”

“Yeah,” Hayato purrs, satisfaction warm in his voice, and curls his fingers into the fabric of Takeshi’s shirt to tug it up out of the edge of his pants. The cloth slides free, dragging the edge of Takeshi’s undershirt with it, and Hayato slides the last pair of buttons free of their buttonholes to unfasten the whole front of the fabric. “Let go, Takeshi.” Takeshi does, angling his arms back obediently, and Hayato pushes the shirt off his shoulders to fall to the floor.

“Shouldn’t we hang it up?” Takeshi asks while Hayato’s hands slide up over the edge of his pants, fingers catching the hem of his undershirt. “It’s a nice shirt.”

“It needs washing anyway,” Hayato says, dismissive and hot, and then his palms are dragging over Takeshi’s bare skin and Takeshi is shuddering, quivering at the friction as Hayato pushes his hands up against the catch of sweat clinging sticky to his skin. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Takeshi agrees, and Hayato’s hand braces at his spine, holds him in place while the other pushes at his waist to urge him sideways. He tips over obediently, lets the contact with Hayato’s hip go in favor of falling onto his back across the oversized bed, and Hayato is over him as fast as he goes, leaning in to shadow Takeshi’s face with his shoulders before Takeshi has blinked his dizzy eyes into focus again.

“How does it feel?” Hayato asks, leaning in closer so the shapes of the words fit against Takeshi’s lips. Takeshi arches up, pressing himself nearer to Hayato’s touch, and Hayato’s fingers catch at his waist, slide along the curve of his spine to hold him into the trembling angle he attains. “To be a married man?”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, the name a grounding point for his thoughts, a brace against the heat rising in his veins and trembling under his skin. His ring is heavy on his hand, Hayato’s is cool against his skin, but the heat is the same, the fire that surges to meet Hayato’s touch the same as it has ever been.

“Is it weird?” Hayato prompts. He’s pushing Takeshi’s shirt higher, baring the other’s skin for the cool air of the room and the hot slide of his fingers, but he doesn’t look down, tracing over Takeshi’s skin with his fingers instead of with his eyes while he smiles something dark and secret at the other’s face. “Don’t you feel any different, Takeshi?”

“No,” Takeshi admits, feeling his heart speeding in his chest, hearing his breathing coming faster. He reaches for Hayato’s shoulder, his hair, threads his fingers into the silver strands as he touches them. “It’s still you.”

Hayato’s laugh is sharp, startling; it comes clear over the sound of Takeshi’s heated inhales, cuts through them as easily as it lights up Hayato’s expression. “What a waste of time,” he growls, adopting the framework of irritation without true frustration under the sound. “All that trouble and it’s the same as it was before?”

“So far,” Takeshi says, unable to stop the way his hips angle up off the bed in pursuit of the weight of Hayato leaning over him.

Hayato hums. When he moves it’s to slide his knee up the bed, to angle forward to press against the inside of Takeshi’s spread legs. “That so?” He rocks forward, his leg sliding closer, and for a moment there’s pressure, the friction of motion grinding against the front of Takeshi’s pants. “I guess we’ll have to make a thorough exploration of it to be sure.”

“Oh?” Takeshi manages. His hand digs into Hayato’s hair, holds him in place while Takeshi arches up in pursuit of a kiss. “Okay.”

“You’re not even putting up a decent fight,” Hayato sighs, but he’s smiling, and when he leans down it’s to fit his mouth to Takeshi’s, to give him the weight of a kiss that lingers long enough that Takeshi is still thrumming with it when Hayato pulls away from his lips and his touch both. He drags at Takeshi’s undershirt, careless with the fabric as he wasn’t with the dress clothes, and Takeshi obeys the unstated demand and lifts his arms to submit to the pull. The fabric catches at his shoulders, the collar drags over his face, and Hayato is on him again almost before the shirt has been tossed aside, fitting his hand in against Takeshi’s hair to pin him down while he leans in close against the other’s bare skin. Takeshi whimpers into his mouth, reaches for Hayato’s coat again, and Hayato pulls away before he can get a good hold on it, slides back off the bed and over the edge before Takeshi can protest.

“Stay there,” he says when Takeshi hums a wordless question and starts to sit up to reach for him. Hayato is moving fast, his actions graceful with practice; his coat is off as fast as Takeshi blinks, draped over the back of a chair as he toes his shoes off and follows with his socks. “I’m not done with you yet.” There’s a sweep of motion, fingers catching at his collar, and then his tie is undone too, laid carefully atop the jacket before he lifts his wrists to push his cufflinks free and set them aside on the table in the corner. A toss of his head, a shake of silver hair, and then he’s returning, rolling his sleeves up off his arms before reaching for the button at his collar.

“That’s better,” he allows as he drops to a knee at the end of the bed, absent his tie and coat and a significant portion of his formality. His hair looks darker against the crisp white of his shirt, his eyes brighter; Takeshi’s gaze drops to his throat, to the thrumming pulse he can see against Hayato’s skin, and when he takes a breath it catches into a gasp in his throat. Hayato doesn’t comment, not aloud, but his mouth quirks into a smile before he ducks his chin and reaches for Takeshi’s ankle with businesslike efficiency.

“You look better like this too,” he volunteers, dragging the other’s shoe off before Takeshi can even think to make at attempt at helping. The second goes the way of the first, followed shortly by the silk-soft dress socks worn at Hayato’s insistence, and Hayato slides farther forward on the bed, settles onto his knees between Takeshi’s legs as he reaches for the other’s belt. “Maybe I’ll just confiscate your clothes for the next few days.”

“Ha,” Takeshi manages, though the laugh goes hot in his chest as Hayato’s fingers close against the leather of his belt and slide the end free of the buckle. “We still have to take our flight in the morning.”

“Spoilsport,” Hayato tells him, unfastening the buckle and tugging at the metal to slide the belt free of its loops. Takeshi is reminded of his tie still hanging on the knob to the room in the moment before Hayato pulls the end of the belt free and curls it in on itself before setting it on the floor carefully outside of stepping distance. “Who needs to go to Italy anyway?” His hands catch at Takeshi’s waistband by way of ghosting a path along his hips and Takeshi shudders, his body arching up involuntarily towards the drag of Hayato’s hands. “It’s not like we’ll be doing anything there we couldn’t do here too.”

“I want to go,” Takeshi says, trying to keep his focus on the conversation as Hayato’s hands work open his fly, as Hayato’s gaze lingers hot against the front of his pants. He’s going harder by the second; it’s obvious before Hayato gets his slacks unfastened, the more so as he draws the fabric wide over the taut-stretched cloth underneath, and Takeshi can feel his heart stutter on an excess of adrenaline as Hayato’s eyelashes shift as the other considers the shape of his cock against the clinging elastic of his briefs. “It’ll be fun once we’re there.”

“Yeah,” Hayato drawls, slow and teasing as he hooks his fingers under the edge of Takeshi’s pants to drag them off the other’s hips and down his thighs. The fabric is smooth, slides easy across Takeshi’s skin; in its wake cool air hits flushed heat, wicks the threat of sweat away from Takeshi’s legs as Hayato pulls his pants free and drops them off the edge of the bed. That’s unlike Hayato, symptomatic of his increased distraction, but Takeshi doesn’t comment on it; Hayato is reaching back up for him, pressing the weight of his palm against Takeshi’s cock through his briefs, and Takeshi is in no mood to argue with this. He shudders with the friction, his hips rising off the bed of their own accord, and Hayato turns his hand, fits his fingers into half a hold against Takeshi as he leans in closer, dipping his shoulders down until his hair is skimming the flat of the other’s stomach. “The hotel room will be novel and exciting. They might even have different bedsheets, who knows.”

“Not just the hotel,” Takeshi manages, though the words tremble on the tension under his skin as Hayato’s mouth ghosts over his stomach, slides heat over his navel and up to press a kiss against the center of his ribcage. “I mean. I mean the rest of the visit.”

“Takeshi,” Hayato purrs, the vibration trembling across Takeshi’s skin, and he presses harder, pins Takeshi’s cock flush to his hips under the weight of his hold. “We’re not going to leave the hotel room.”

“Oh,” Takeshi says, and Hayato’s kissing him again, fitting his lips to Takeshi’s skin as he draws his hand away to leave Takeshi’s cock to ache untouched for a moment while fingers push up over his hips and curl under the elastic of his underwear. Takeshi closes his eyes, swallows convulsively; when he reaches out his fingers land in Hayato’s hair, slide into the weight of the strands to push them back from the other’s face. “Are we not?”

“No,” Hayato says. Takeshi’s briefs catch at his hips, are urged down by Hayato’s touch; the air is cool against his flushed cock, the release from the fabric a relief. When Hayato shifts Takeshi can feel the soft of the other’s shirt catch at his skin. “We’re going to stay in the hotel and make  _thorough_  use of every available surface in it.”

“Ah,” Takeshi breathes, starting to tremble with heat, and Hayato kisses his stomach again, lets the contact linger before he slides down and tugs Takeshi’s clothes off the length of his legs. Takeshi kicks his foot free, lets his knees fall wide, and Hayato settles into the open angle of his thighs like he was always meant to be there.

“Unless you’re opposed,” he says to the line of Takeshi’s hip, pressing his mouth against it while his fingers slide up Takeshi’s thigh and seek out the flushed weight of the other’s cock. His hold is steady, easy with familiarity; it makes Takeshi groan, stutters his hips up in another half-desperate thrust against the friction of Hayato’s hold around him. “If you want to waste all your time sightseeing on our honeymoon, Takeshi--”

“No,” Takeshi says, fast and hot. “No, that’s. The hotel room is fine.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Hayato observes, and then he strokes up over Takeshi, dragging a surge of friction into the other’s veins as if he’s lightning grounding out against the other’s body. Takeshi arches, chokes a gasp; his heel digs in against the bed, bracing him in place while his hands make fists of Hayato’s hair.

“Relax,” Hayato says, but his voice is going hot, Takeshi can hear the purr of appreciation under it. There’s another press of heat at his hip, the shape of another kiss, and then Hayato’s fingers over the contact point, pinning the outline of his mouth in place while he pushes himself up over his knees. “Don’t you have any stamina at all, sports freak?”

“Hayato,” Takeshi manages, but the plea comes out as a laugh, frayed on the edge of heat in his veins into something meltingly sweet on his tongue. “You’re teasing me.”

“I’m not,” Hayato protests, but he lets his hold go, lets the tension in Takeshi’s leg ease into the strain of anticipation instead of the ache of immediacy. “Find the bottle for me.”

“Ah,” Takeshi says, “right” and he moves to twist and reach for the drawer in the bedside table, where they half-unpacked when they dropped their things off this morning. The bottle is easy to find -- it’s the only thing in the drawer -- and Hayato has barely had time to run a hand through his tangled hair before Takeshi is pushing up on his elbow to offer it.

“And back,” Hayato tells him in lieu of thanks, taking the bottle and pushing the lid open nearly in the same movement. Takeshi is more than willing to obey, to fall back to sprawl over the bed while he watches Hayato spill liquid over his fingers with the practiced grace of years of experience. The lid shuts, the bottle is tossed carelessly aside, and then Hayato’s hand is back at Takeshi’s hip, his fingers spreading wide to brace the other down while slick fingers come between Takeshi’s thighs.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, the same words he always says, as if it’s ever been too much for the heat in Takeshi’s blood. It’s more a habit than anything else, Takeshi knows; it makes him smile, warm and easy on affection, and then Hayato is pushing into him in one slick motion, his finger sinking knuckle-deep on the first thrust. Takeshi’s vision blurs, his throat tenses on a moan, and Hayato sighs satisfaction over him and pushes in deeper. His touch is careful, steady and certain as Takeshi eases over the bed, sighing relief at the familiar stretch as his legs tip wider into an invitation for more.

“I love you,” he volunteers as Hayato angles his wrist to slide deeper, as he draws back to push in again in another slow thrust of friction. “I love you so, so much, Hayato.”

“I know,” Hayato says, and he’s watching Takeshi’s face instead of his fingers, his eyes are going darker and his lashes are dipping heavier with each movement of his hand. “I love you too.”

“I’m glad,” Takeshi tells him, and Hayato twists his hand, pushes in against him in a way that tenses all along his thighs and jolts electricity up his spine. “ _Ah_.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Hayato tells him without a trace of judgment in his voice, with nothing but the growl of resonance that has become affection over the span of years, all the sharp edges in the tone worn soft and smooth as the curve of the smile threatening his lips. “I can’t believe I married you.”

“I can’t either,” Takeshi admits, and Hayato’s touch slides back, eases out of him entirely while the other’s eyelashes flutter at whatever he sees in Takeshi’s face, his expression going soft and warm like he’s echoing the affection in Takeshi’s veins. Takeshi reaches up for silver so he can wind his fingers into the weight of Hayato’s hair. “I’m so glad you did, though.”

“You should have known better,” Hayato tells him, and his touch presses against Takeshi again, force against him until Takeshi shudders and relaxes so Hayato can fit two fingers into him. Takeshi has to let a hand go from the fist he’s making of Hayato’s hair, has to press his fingers against his face in a useless attempt at covering the open-mouthed gasp of reaction this wins from him, and Hayato hums satisfaction over him and shifts his hand to ease in deeper. “You could have married anyone, you know.”

“No,” Takeshi says, protesting the assumption leading to the claim as much as the claim itself. “I only ever wanted you.”

“Idiot,” Hayato tells him, soft and warm and affectionate, and slides his fingers in deeper, presses Takeshi open around the shape of his fingers. “I still don’t know why.”

“Because,” Takeshi says, the one word standing as an explanation all on its own, the rest of the sentence something he’s never been able to frame around the swelling pressure in his chest, the ache of affection so bone-deep it might as well be an instinct, might as well be an unbreakable line holding him as close to Hayato as he can get. “Just because.”

“You don’t make any more sense now than you ever did,” Hayato tells him. He tips his hand up, spreads his fingers wider; Takeshi tenses at the stretch, his body flexing into a single wave of reaction before he falls back to the bed with his heart pounding to heat in his chest and his skin flushing hot all over his body. “I can’t say I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, shaping the syllables in the back of his mouth and letting the intimacy of them slide smooth over his tongue. “Please.”

“I’m trying to take my time,” Hayato informs him, snapping the words hard enough that they almost manage to sound angry instead of overheated. “Don’t rush me, Takeshi.” But he’s moving faster, setting a quicker pace for the slide of his fingers, and it’s enough to take the edge of desperation off at least, to spark fire into Takeshi’s veins and tilt his head back on a moan of satisfaction that he can feel ground out in the pressure of heat low in his stomach. Hayato angles his fingers, presses in farther, and Takeshi jolts with it, his cock jerking hard until he can feel the slick of pre-come catching at the head. Everything is hot, his blood and his skin and his breath, and Hayato is hotter still, the stroke of his fingers pushing Takeshi further into dizzy-white pleasure before Hayato’s even taken his pants off. The thought makes Takeshi whimper, persuades him to open his eyes and look back down, and Hayato is watching him, his eyes hazy and lingering on Takeshi’s face instead of tracking the tremor of reactions running through his body. Hayato’s eyes are soft, his lips parted on warmth; Takeshi is sure he’s never seen him look so gentle, so strangely awestruck by what he’s seeing.

“Hayato,” Takeshi says again, and he’s reaching out with completely involuntary need to fit his fingers to Hayato’s shoulder, to pull and urge the other closer. “ _Please_.”

Takeshi can see submission in the movement of Hayato’s throat, in the way he works over a convulsive swallow as his eyelashes shiver across the green of his eyes. “Okay,” he says, sounding only a little bit hoarse, and he eases his fingers free, leaving Takeshi stretched and hot and achingly empty without the other’s touch. Hayato is reaching for his pants, bracing his fingers at the weight of his belt as fast as he rocks back over his knees, but Takeshi is pushing up without giving him time to shed his clothes, wrapping his fingers into the front of Hayato’s shirt and tugging to drag him down into a kiss. Hayato’s mouth hits his, his lips still parted on the shape of whatever he was going to say, and Takeshi swallows the vibration down his throat, lets Hayato’s words shiver hot against the inside of his chest as he starts to work open the buttons of the other’s shirt. It’s a rush, like tearing the wrapping off a present instead of easing the tape free of the corners, but Hayato doesn’t protest; he drops his belt over the edge of the bed without looking, fumbles with the fly of his pants before he’s even shed his half-open shirt, and then it’s a tangle, Takeshi urging Hayato’s shirt off his shoulders while Hayato is unfastening his pants and pushing them off his hips. There’s a pause, a moment for Hayato to struggle free of the shirt and leave Takeshi with the fluttering soft of the fabric, and then he’s rocking back farther, breaking away from Takeshi’s mouth while he slides his pants down his legs and away. His undershirt inverts over his head, a swift drag of white that ruffles his hair, and Takeshi is reaching for his boxers as fast as Hayato comes forward, catching his fingers at the waistband as Hayato surges forward towards him.

“This better?” Hayato asks, fitting the words to the corner of Takeshi’s mouth, pressing the heat of them against the part of Takeshi’s lips. Takeshi groans, tips his head to follow the pressure, and Hayato’s fingers catch the waistband of his own boxers, drag them free of the grip of Takeshi’s hold as he pushes them down his legs and off. There’s an array of clothes on the bed -- boxers, undershirt, Hayato’s slacks and the soft rumple of his shirt -- but Hayato doesn’t turn to them, just sweeps his arm sideways and knocks the whole pile off the edge of the bed to the floor. Takeshi catches a breath, charmed into a smile by this display of reckless abandon, and then Hayato is on him, crushing a kiss into his mouth and bearing him back down flat over the sheets. Hayato’s hips fit between Takeshi’s thighs, Takeshi’s legs angle around the heat of Hayato against him, and when Hayato drops his weight down to line them up they both sigh anticipation into the gap between their mouths.

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, and “I love you,” Hayato finishes, and then he’s pushing forward, letting the heat of his cock slide and fit against the stretch of Takeshi’s entrance. They come together smooth, experience and preparation making the motion simple, easy, like they were meant to be together, Hayato sliding home while Takeshi shudders and thrums with heat under him. Hayato is hot, wider than his fingers and thrusting in deeper than he can reach, and Takeshi can feel his whole body straining with the tension of it, his thighs aching with the arch of his spine and his toes curling to dig against the soft of the unfamiliar sheets under him. But Hayato is here, and Hayato is familiar, and Hayato is groaning helpless heat over Takeshi’s mouth, his shoulders hunching in as if to make a frame to pin Takeshi down against the mattress.

“ _God_ ,” he manages, grating the words past the knot of heat Takeshi can hear in his throat. His hands are fists on the sheets; when Takeshi reaches up to brace his arm across Hayato’s shoulders he can feel the strain in them, the tremor of effort it takes for the other to hold himself up. “ _Fuck_ , Takeshi, you feel--”

“Good,” Takeshi says. “Hayato, please, more.”

Hayato laughs, a burst of sound humming with tension as much as amusement. “Idiot,” he says with audible tenderness. He shifts sideways, one hand freeing the sheets, and when it comes back out it’s to trail down Takeshi’s waist, to brace his fingers to a hold at the other’s hip. “I’m as deep as I can go, what do you  _want_  from me.” But he’s drawing back anyway, taking his weight over his knees, and when he thrusts forward again it’s in a smooth arc, a jolt of motion that Takeshi can feel spark heat halfway up his spine. His cock twitches, his legs tremble, and when he groans it doesn’t even sound like Hayato’s name, just heat and steam sticking in his throat.

“Yeah,” Hayato says, and he moves again, takes another slow roll of his hips like he’s settling himself into the space of Takeshi’s spread legs, like he’s finding the best fit for his cock inside the other’s body. “God, Takeshi, you’re so damn  _hot_.”

“Ah,” Takeshi starts, and then, as Hayato thrusts into him again: “ _Ah_ ,” hotter and louder than he expected. Hayato rumbles a laugh over him and his brace at Takeshi’s hip eases, his fingers dragging up over the tremor in the other’s leg instead.

“Fuck,” he says, almost a laugh and mostly just heat. His fingers fit around Takeshi’s cock, his grip mapping the circumference of the flushed skin, and Takeshi whimpers, reaches up to catch his other arm around Hayato’s shoulders atop the first, to urge the other down closer to the sweat-slick of his skin. Hayato capitulates, leaning in close enough for his hair to brush Takeshi’s cheek, and then he starts to stroke, finding a rhythm to the grip of his hand to match the slow thrusts he’s taking with his hips, the pressure of his cock aching heat into Takeshi’s veins with every motion. “I’m going to keep you in bed  _all the time_  now that we’re married.”

“It’s not like we were waiting,” Takeshi points out, as reasonably as possible around the way all his blood is trying to go to steam and evaporate past the barrier of his skin. “We had sex all the time before too.”

“Yeah,” Hayato growls. “But it’s different, now.”

“It’s not,” Takeshi protests, feeling the drag of Hayato’s fingers over him, the aching pressure inside him as Hayato shifts his knee wider, rocks himself in deeper to threaten starburst white at Takeshi’s vision. “I. This is the same, Hayato, we’re still--”

“No,” Hayato tells him, sharp and certain enough that it stalls Takeshi’s words to cut off his speech in his throat. Hayato is moving harder, now, faster, Takeshi thinks, but it’s hard to tell with how hard his heart is pounding, with how fast his breathing is coming. Hayato’s thumb is pressing against the head of his cock, catching and spreading slick across the flushed weight of it; the slippery drag of his touch is spreading heat into Takeshi’s veins, cresting a wave of distraction on his mental horizon. “This isn’t the same.” Hayato leans in closer, his forehead bumping against Takeshi’s; when Takeshi breathes in he can taste Hayato at his lips, can inhale the taste of the other’s skin like he’s breathing in the weight of a storm in the air. “We’re  _married_.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Takeshi breathes, and the ring on his finger comes into focus again, the weight of the metal pinned between his skin and Hayato’s shoulder like a promise given form. “ _Hayato_.”

“Married,” Hayato says again, like he’s tasting the word, purring it into something familiar and easy. “You’re my  _husband_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Takeshi blurts, his back arching, his cock going hot. Hayato’s fingers are pulling over him, pressing heat into his blood, rising pleasure low in his stomach, and-- “Say it again.”

Hayato laughs, the sound straining on heat and thrumming sincerity. “Husband,” he says again, ducking in closer to fit his mouth along the curve of Takeshi’s ear. His breath is very warm, his exhale loud; Takeshi can feel every shift of Hayato’s body against him, can feel friction skimming at all the points they touch. “You’re my husband, Takeshi.”

“Oh god,” Takeshi gasps, and he’s coming undone, the wave is rising and sweeping towards him and he’s quivering with want for it, his entire being trembling anticipation of the break. “ _Hayato_.”

“Takeshi,” Hayato says against his ear. “I love you” and Takeshi shudders, every part of his body tensing on reflex as the wave sweeps over him and out into heat in his blood. His heart is pounding, his breathing stalls, but his vision is silver-white, the tension in him converting into trembling pleasure as he comes under Hayato’s dragging touch. Hayato is hot against him, around him, in him, and Takeshi is lost, shaking through tremors of heat and pleasure and friction until he can’t tell his own orgasm apart from the pulse of Hayato coming into him, can’t tell the gasp of his own breathing from Hayato panting hot against his shoulder. Takeshi’s ring has gone warm, the metal heated to skin temperature between the press of their bodies; when he slides his hand up the curve of Hayato’s neck he can feel it drag against the other’s hair, can feel the slide of the strands as they catch and slip free of his touch.

“God,” Hayato says into his shoulder, the sound muffled nearly to unintelligibility by the friction of his mouth at Takeshi’s skin. “Takeshi.”

Takeshi takes a breath, lets it out slow against the ruffled strands of Hayato’s hair. “I love you,” he says, simple, easy, familiar, and turns his head to skim his lips at Hayato’s cheek. He can feel the way Hayato huffs a laugh, can anticipate the motion of the other turning before he does; by the time Hayato has pushed himself up enough to catch Takeshi’s mouth with his they’re both smiling so wide it’s hard to make the outline of a kiss between them.

Takeshi doesn’t mind. With Hayato’s ring on his finger and the whole of their life together before them, they can take as long as they want finding their way into alignment.


	2. Trade

Italy, Hayato decides early their first morning there, is worth the flight.

It’s not the sightseeing that convinces him. It’s too early for that yet, well before the hours that Hayato will allow as reasonable to emerge into some modicum of sociability and barely past those that are a sane boundary for consciousness. The hotel room is certainly larger than the one they left behind -- an apartment in miniature rather than just a space to hold a bed and a shower -- but Hayato hasn’t yet made the most of the advantages afforded by that either. His appreciation thus far is limited to the soft of the bed, and the warmth of the sheets, and mostly -- especially -- to the sounds Takeshi is making as Hayato pins him down to the mattress so he can kiss against his collarbone.

“Hayato,” Takeshi hums, turning the other’s name musical on his lips as Hayato catches his teeth on skin to drag friction against the tan that clings gold to Takeshi’s shoulder. Takeshi’s hips come up, rocking off the mattress and against the tangle of sheets between them in search of the friction Hayato isn’t giving him, yet; Hayato shifts his weight, fits a knee between Takeshi’s, and when he leans in closer it’s to hold Takeshi’s hips down to the bed by the weight of his own pressed against the other’s body.

“You’re so impatient,” Hayato purrs at him, pulling back enough that he can see the haze of heat in Takeshi’s eyes, can watch the part of his lips on the rush of his breathing. Takeshi’s hair is tangled around his head, ruffled up over his scalp without any sign of composure to it; it makes him look disheveled, undone before Hayato has done anything other than kiss against the shift of shoulder under his skin. Hayato grins, sincerity twisting the corner of his mouth taut on amusement, and Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his gaze tracking the other’s lips rather than the attention in his eyes. “What are you in such a hurry for?” Hayato braces himself on one hand, freeing the other to touch and trail against the warm of Takeshi’s arm; Takeshi unwinds his hand from the blankets, turns his palm up in an offering, and Hayato laces their fingers together without looking, feels the press of Takeshi’s ring settle between the knuckles of his fingers. “We have all day.”

“All week,” Takeshi corrects, mustering more coherency than Hayato thought he could manage under the circumstances. “Days and days, Hayato.”

“That’s right.” Hayato tips himself sideways, draws his leg in closer; Takeshi shudders when the other’s thigh fits against his hips, his eyelashes dipping and his mouth falling open as Hayato presses against him to grind friction against his cock. “So why can’t you slow down?” Another kiss, higher this time, at the curve of Takeshi’s throat, and Takeshi does what he’s intended to, which is turn his head sideways and gasp heat against the sheets as he offers his throat to the press of Hayato’s mouth. “I was up until three, can’t I get a few hours of rest with you?”

“Sorry,” Takeshi gasps, sounding not sorry at all. Hayato tightens his hold on Takeshi’s fingers, takes another grinding roll of his hips; Takeshi quivers against the bed, his legs straining to rock himself up against Hayato. Hayato smiles against gold skin. “I wasn’t trying to wake you up.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Hayato growls, adopting the closest tone to true irritation he can find with his blood rushing to heat in his veins and the thrum of Takeshi’s pulse against the press of his lips. “You thought I wouldn’t mind you pulling all the blankets off me, huh?”

“I just wanted to kiss you,” Takeshi protests, but he’s smiling, Hayato can hear the tension of it under his voice. His free hand comes up, his fingers spreading out to slide across Hayato’s shoulder and stroke down to settle in the dip of his spine. “You could have kept sleeping.”

“Like I was going to sleep through you kissing me,” Hayato scoffs. He fits his mouth to Takeshi’s jaw, lingers there for a moment before shifting sideways in pursuit of the other’s parted lips. “You really are the biggest idiot I know.”

Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his head turning to track Hayato’s movement; he looks dizzy, flushed warm and smiling so soft it turns his eyes melting-warm. “Hayato,” he sighs, affection hot on his tongue, and Hayato kisses him to quiet, catches the sound of his own name off Takeshi’s lips and echoes it back to him with a growl against the other’s tongue. Hayato tips his weight forward, grinds in against Takeshi again, and Takeshi shivers under him, giving up a faint moan of appreciation that is caught to silence against Hayato’s mouth. His skin is warm, his mouth is hot, and Hayato is just starting to think about pulling away enough to strip the barrier of blankets from between them when there’s a rap at the door, the clear sound of a knock against the wood.

“ _What_ ,” Hayato blurts, drawing away and turning to look involuntarily towards the door. The lock is still turned, he can see it from here, but it’s not enough to push away his startled irritation at being interrupted. “The  _fuck_  is it.”

“Oh,” Takeshi says, breathless and warm under him. “It’s breakfast.”

Hayato looks back at him. “ _What_?”

“Breakfast,” Takeshi repeats, still looking dazed and incoherent and speaking in a tone that is infusing the prospect of food with a sensuality Hayato is quite sure it doesn’t deserve. “We told them to bring it by yesterday. When we woke up.”

“At  _nine_ ,” Hayato reminds him. “It’s barely past eight.” He looks up at the clock, his attention drawn there by his own words, and is promptly confronted with absolute evidence to the contrary.

“I’ll get it,” Takeshi offers, and he wiggles away while Hayato is still staring at the time and trying to figure out how he lost an hour to the process of kissing against Takeshi’s shoulder and grinding him down against the bed.

“Fuck,” Hayato says; then, as he looks back to Takeshi, “ _Jesus_ , put something on first.”

Takeshi glances back at him, flashes a grin as bright as the sound of laughter. “I will,” he says, and makes for the bathroom as another knock comes, louder than the first. Hayato reaches for the trailing blankets left in Takeshi’s wake, drags them up over his hips to bunch around his waist, and Takeshi reemerges from the bathroom with a towel looped around the sharp angle of his hips. Hayato is about to protest that a  _towel_  hardly counts as decency, but Takeshi is reaching for the door and drawing it open, and his speech dies into a flush of self-consciousness instead. He ducks his head, hides his face behind the fall of his hair while Takeshi has a very brief conversation consisting more of laughter than of coherent words, and then the door shuts and Hayato looks back up to see Takeshi return with a tray of the promised breakfast in his hands.

“I can’t believe you,” Hayato informs him as Takeshi deposits the tray on the table and immediately turns back towards the bed, not even bothering to uncover any of the platters before he’s crawling back up over the end of the mattress. “This--” and he grabs at the edge of the towel, his fingers curling under the twist of the makeshift knot Takeshi put in it, “--is  _not_  clothes.”

“It’s fine,” Takeshi tells him, smiling in a way that makes Hayato believe him and sliding closer to straddle the open angle of the other’s legs. The loop in the towel comes free, the fabric falls loose, and Hayato is left holding the weight of it as Takeshi rocks forward to press against Hayato and drop a heavy arm around his shoulders. “We rented the honeymoon suite, it’s not like they don’t know we’re together.”

“It’s not about keeping it a  _secret_ ,” Hayato growls in the best approximation of anger he can manage while his hands are settling into a hold at Takeshi’s hips to brace the other steady over his lap. “ _Obviously_ , you’re wearing a  _ring_ , it’s not particularly subtle.”

“What is it then?” Takeshi asks. His fingers are in Hayato’s hair, pushing the weight of the locks back from the other’s face; when he leans in closer in pursuit of a kiss his forehead bumps Hayato’s, the heat of his sigh gusting warm across Hayato’s mouth.

“Basic decency,” Hayato tells him. “You can’t open the door with nothing but a  _towel_  between a complete stranger and  _this_.” He lets his hold on Takeshi’s hip go, trails his fingers sideways along the line of the other’s hip; when he closes his grip on flushed skin Takeshi shudders, offering a tiny, breathless moan against Hayato’s mouth as his lashes flutter again.

“What if it hadn’t stayed on?” Hayato asks, and he’s losing his grip on his irritation and slurring into teasing instead but he can’t find it in him to mind, not with the way Takeshi is arching in towards him and the way Takeshi’s thighs are tensing with the effort to rock up into his hold. “You would have shown that poor girl way more than she wanted to see of you.”

“You’re right,” Takeshi agrees, so easily Hayato’s not sure he’s listening at all. “Sorry, Hayato.”

“You don’t need to apologize to  _me_ ,” Hayato purrs, and he’s going hot, now, losing his grasp on even the imitation of frustration he had. “ _I_  don’t care what you wear around me.”

“Oh,” Takeshi says, vague with distraction and straining on heat. “You don’t?”

“No,” Hayato says, and pushes hard at Takeshi’s side to knock him off-balance and falling over the bed. Takeshi topples without trying to catch himself and Hayato turns in over him as fast as he falls, reclaiming his hold at Takeshi’s hip to pin him down while he kicks free of the sheets and slides down the long line of the other’s body. Takeshi’s breathing flutters in his chest, trembling visibly along the flat of his stomach, and Hayato pauses to press a kiss just over the other’s navel, to draw a tremor of breathless heat from Takeshi’s lungs before he slides down farther. “As far as I’m concerned you’d be better off in nothing at all.” He breathes out hard, deliberately gusting warmth across the flushed heat of Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi groans, hitting the bone-deep resonance he does, sometimes, when Hayato does something he particularly likes. Hayato grins, sharp and bright where Takeshi can’t see him, and then he parts his lips and ducks down to take Takeshi’s cock back over his tongue. Takeshi quivers with the contact, the strain in his body easing to drop him loose-limbed and warm over the sheets, and Hayato brackets Takeshi’s hips in his hands, pinning the other down as if he were making any attempt to move at all while Hayato slides down farther against his cock. He tastes like salt, the heavy weight of arousal and the soft catch of lingering sleep both spreading over Hayato’s lips, and Hayato shuts his eyes to let his attention focus on the shape of Takeshi’s cock against his tongue and the press of heat all through his mouth. Fingers settle into his hair, gentle contact instead of more forceful urging, and Hayato can feel himself start to smile before he catches the expression back and focuses instead on finding a rhythm to his movement.

It’s easy to find. This is familiar, even if their surroundings aren’t: the far-off ache along Hayato’s jaw and the salt on his tongue and the sound of Takeshi breathing harder over him. He can feel the tremor of reaction along the inside of the other’s thighs, the tiny flex of motion as Takeshi fights back the urge to thrust up, and he sucks the harder for it, rewarding Takeshi’s restraint with a surge of sensation that arches against the other’s spine and draws a choked-off groan of startled heat from his throat. Takeshi’s shaking under him, going to pieces with each motion of Hayato’s head, but Hayato stays steady, sustains an even pace even when Takeshi’s fingers start to flex involuntarily against his hair, even when the other’s breathing starts to come so hard Hayato can hear every inhale strain against the heat in the air. Hayato braces his hands, and tightens his lips, and then he catches his tongue against the head of Takeshi’s cock and Takeshi shudders and comes, melting into trembling satisfaction over the sheets as he spills salt-bitter against the back of Hayato’s mouth. Hayato swallows hard, licks over Takeshi again, and it’s not until the other has dissolved into a boneless sprawl over the bed that he draws back and away, slowly enough that he can suck Takeshi clean as he goes.

“Oh,” Takeshi sighs towards the ceiling as Hayato comes back up to stretch out alongside him so he can see the haze of satisfaction hanging heavy in the other’s eyes. “Hayato.”

“Isn’t this better?” Hayato asks, his mouth quirking on a smirk as Takeshi blinks back into focus on his face and offers a sleepy-slow smile at him. “Who needs breakfast anyway?”

“I’m hungry,” Takeshi protests, but he’s still smiling, his attention sliding to cling to Hayato’s mouth as he pushes up off the bed and comes in for a kiss.

“So eat,” Hayato tells him, growling the words against the friction of Takeshi’s mouth on his. “Now that I’m done with you you can do whatever you want.”

“I’m not done,” Takeshi says, smiling soft so the words come out far more softly than the disagreement they are framing deserves.

“You are,” Hayato tells him, even though he knows where this is going, even though he doesn’t need the draw of Takeshi’s hand sliding along his back and down to his hip to make the suggestion for him. “You won’t be ready for another round for a half hour at least.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi agrees without any self-consciousness at all. “But you haven’t had your turn.”

“It’s fine,” Hayato tries to claim, although his lack of conviction thrums heat under the words and trembles his hand into a sliding grab at Takeshi’s hair as the other starts to work his way down the bed, leaving a trail of kisses against Hayato’s skin as he goes. Takeshi’s mouth touches at shoulder, stomach, hip, and Hayato is breathing harder and trying to find words for a protest he doesn’t mean as Takeshi’s hand steadies at his waist and Takeshi’s breath gusts warm across his stomach. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Takeshi tips his head back, looks up through his lashes at Hayato. His eyes are very bright, hazel and gold at once; his smile comes fast, a grin that flashes into existence before Hayato can catch his breath.

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

“Ah,” Hayato says, attempting to sound off-hand and failing miserably as Takeshi ducks his head to breathe hot against his cock. His voice cracks, his cock twitches, and Takeshi’s lips skim against him, the other’s tongue trailing slick against his length as Hayato chokes on an inhale and rocks his hips forward towards the other’s mouth. “Well as long--as long as you want to.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, appreciation audible under his tongue, and then he’s sliding his lips down around Hayato’s cock and Hayato’s groaning too loudly to hear whatever muffled sound Takeshi might be making. His hips stutter forward, pressing himself farther back into Takeshi’s mouth in a rush, and Takeshi hums approval Hayato can feel more than he can hear and leans in closer. His mouth is warm, his tongue dragging slick friction all across Hayato’s skin, and Hayato takes a breath and curls his fingers in against the back of Takeshi’s head to hold him steady. Takeshi’s fingers slide, catch against the dip of Hayato’s spine, and Hayato draws back, gaining himself an inch of motion so he can thrust back into the heat of Takeshi’s mouth. Takeshi makes a sound, some unintelligible shudder of heat; his eyelashes flutter, settle shut as he hums satisfaction, and Hayato can feel the surrender of the motion run all the way up his spine, electricity short-circuiting coherency as he fucks into the soft invitation of Takeshi’s open mouth. His fingers tangle into soft hair, his free hand coming out to cup against the sharp edge of Takeshi’s jaw, and Takeshi tightens his lips to suck against Hayato’s skin, gentle encouragement as if to pull him in farther. Hayato’s breathing is stalling in his chest, catching high and anxious in the hunch of his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop; it’s an impossibility to even pause, when Takeshi is tugging him closer and taking him farther and Hayato’s hips are falling into a snap-quick rhythm, rocking forward faster with each surge of heat in his veins. He’s growling, purring, satisfaction given voice on the tension in his throat, and Takeshi looks blissful, all the lines of his face relaxed into the glow of satisfaction, of pleasure, of warmth radiant with the heat in his veins. Hayato gasps a breath, catches and holds it in his chest; and then Takeshi’s fingers tighten at his back, Takeshi pushes a half-inch closer, and Hayato jerks and spills into the other’s mouth, his entire body shaking with the force of the orgasm that tears through him. He’s curling in without meaning to, framing Takeshi with the curve of his shoulders, and Takeshi is moaning around him, offering unintelligible heat to the air as Hayato comes against the coaxing drag of his tongue. Hayato’s vision hazes, his legs shaking, and for a long moment there is nothing in him but the tension shuddering all through his body in consecutive waves of sensation, each one drawing another pulse of pleasure from him until he’s finally left trembling and breathless against the sheets.

Takeshi pulls back slow, draws away only by an inch as Hayato groans at the friction; when he licks against the head of Hayato’s cock it’s enough to make the other flinch from the rush of sensation, to pull a sound from his throat half-moan and half-wail at the starburst of heat the contact brings. Takeshi laughs, the sound the brightest thing in Hayato’s hazy awareness, and then he slides back over the bed, coming up until Hayato can see the gold of those eyes focused on him again.

Hayato stares at Takeshi for a moment, reaching for words that will fit the heat in the air. “I think,” he finally manages, hearing his own voice catch hoarse in the back of his throat. “I’m ready for breakfast now.”

Takeshi starts laughing even before Hayato can manage to pull him into a kiss.


	3. Maps

“What about museums?” Takeshi asks from his sprawl across the floor of their hotel room. “Are they any of those you want to go to?”

“Takeshi.” Hayato’s voice is deceptively level; Takeshi would take it for calm were it not for the edge underneath his name, were it not for the drag at the back of Hayato’s throat that turns the tone to almost-frustration. “What did I tell you about sightseeing?”

Takeshi looks away from the map laid out in front of him and up instead, out the open door to the balcony where Hayato is currently lounging. The midmorning sunlight is white gold, casting everything into a bright-edged glow; Hayato’s hair looks like it’s haloed, the bare skin of his shoulders and chest translucent pale against the dark of the jeans clinging to his hips. He’s trying for a glare, attempting a scowl of irritation, but Takeshi can see his mouth trembling surrender even before Takeshi laughs and Hayato’s expression cracks into amusement instead.

“But there’s so many things we could see,” Takeshi offers without looking down to the creased paper in front of him or at the tiny circles of ink he’s made around the starred points of interest in the city. “It’s not every day we’re in Italy, after all.”

Hayato rolls his eyes skyward, tilting his head back so Takeshi can see the long line of his throat, so the tangle of his hair slides away from his face to weight at the back of his shoulders instead. “Takeshi,” he says again, towards the sky; then he brings his chin down and tips his head into an angle of exasperated affection. “I used to _live_ here. This is _not_ that big of a deal for me.”

“Mmm,” Takeshi hums, abandoning the map so he can roll onto his side and prop himself up on an elbow to consider the angle of Hayato’s shoulders as he braces himself against the railing and the way the sunlight is catching shadows from his eyelashes across the span of his cheekbones. “Should we have gone somewhere else for our honeymoon?”

“No,” Hayato tells him, and unfolds from the railing in a slow shift of muscle under skin that makes Takeshi’s eyelashes suddenly heavy, that makes the boxers and undershirt he’s currently wearing feel like they might be too warm for how hot his blood suddenly feels. “That’s _why_ we’re here.” He steps through the open door without bothering to push it shut behind him, crosses the distance to where Takeshi is sprawled over the floor. “So we don’t get distracted by work.”

“Or sightseeing,” Takeshi volunteers, reaching one hand up to fit his fingers around Hayato’s knee and tugging gently to urge the other down.

“That’s right,” Hayato tells him, dropping to the floor with the same easy grace he showed coming in from the balcony. Takeshi’s never seen Hayato this calm, as if the warm drag of the sun over his skin has eased knots out of his shoulders that Takeshi has never seen absent before. When Takeshi sits up farther so he can press his nose against the curtain of Hayato’s undone hair, he can smell heat clinging to the strands. “And here you are trying to get distracted anyway.”

“I’m not,” Takeshi tells Hayato, shutting his eyes and pressing in closer so he can kiss under the other’s ear, just against the weight of earrings a darker shade of silver than Hayato’s hair. His skin is warm to the touch, clinging to the heat of the sunshine still; Takeshi touches his tongue to it, tastes the gunpowder burn of Hayato’s skin as it flares fire into his veins. “We don’t have to do anything at all if you don’t want to.”

“I didn’t say that,” Hayato growls against Takeshi’s shoulder, and Takeshi smiles and spreads his fingers wide against the dip of Hayato’s waist. Hayato capitulates to the contact like it’s a push instead of the glancing friction it is, shifting sideways like he’s gone too heavy to keep himself upright, and Takeshi follows him down, tipping in over Hayato as he lands on the floor half-atop the smooth lines of the map still spread wide. The paper rustles, caves to the force of Hayato’s shoulders weighting it, and Hayato turns his head to look as Takeshi pursues the breathless rhythm of the other’s pulse under his lips.

“Get off me,” Hayato says without force, his fingers working into a fistful of Takeshi’s shirt to push too-gently at the other’s shoulder. “You’ll ruin your precious map.”

“It’s not my precious map,” Takeshi says. When he shifts his weight he can slide a leg up between Hayato’s knees, can rock forward to grind suggestion against the front of the other’s jeans. Hayato groans at the friction, grabs at Takeshi’s hip, and Takeshi sighs at the other’s throat and slides his hand along Hayato’s waist and down to press his thumb into the sharp angle of hipbone dipping into the top edge of dark denim. “It’s laminated anyway, it’ll be fine.”

“You take such terrible care of things,” Hayato grumbles, though his hips are tilting up off the floor to meet the weight of Takeshi’s leg and the slow press of his fingertips. “I can’t trust you with anything valuable.”

“I’m careful with things that matter,” Takeshi tells Hayato. He draws back by a breath, enough to blink himself into focus on Hayato’s face; he can see all the shades of color in the other’s eyes, this close, steel grey underneath sea green and even the flecks of pale blue that are eclipsed at any more of a distance. Hayato blinks and the colors shift, as variable as a kaleidoscope, and Takeshi has to lean in to kiss him then, the ache of adoration in his chest too strong to bear without the warmth of Hayato’s mouth pressed against his.

“You’re an idiot,” Hayato tells him, some time later when they’ve separated to share the rhythm of overfast breathing that makes Takeshi dizzy on the strain in his chest. He’s pushing at the button to Hayato’s jeans, trying to slide it free without looking at what he’s doing; it’s tricker than it should be, made harder by the stuttering motion of Hayato’s hips like he can’t bear to be flat on the floor when Takeshi is inches above him. “I hope you know that.”

Takeshi laughs. “I know.” Hayato lets his shirt go to reaches for the front of his jeans himself; his fingers catch at Takeshi’s, push and twist at the metal of his button, and the fastening slides free to loose the top edge of the denim. Takeshi hums satisfaction and slides his fingers down to catch at Hayato’s zipper while the other’s hand comes back up to push at the hem of his shirt and shove it off his skin. “You love me anyway.”

“ _And_ you’re full of yourself,” Hayato tells him, grinning in that lopsided way he does when he’s trying to hold back laughter and not at all succeeding. His jeans come open to Takeshi’s fingers; there’s just the silky soft of his boxers underneath, the fabric more than willing to give way to the gentle shove of Takeshi’s touch. “Assuming that I love you.” Takeshi’s fingers skim hot skin, drag up the curve of Hayato’s cock, and Hayato hisses at the sensation, his eyes shutting as his chin goes back, as his cheeks flush pink with the heat in his veins.

“You do,” Takeshi tells him, letting his hips dip down to press at Hayato’s as he closes his fingers into a hold around the other’s length. He can feel the shudder that runs through Hayato’s body at the contact, the tremor in the other’s legs pressing friction against his own cock through his boxers. It makes his eyelashes flutter, makes his head dip forward; when he breathes out it spills into a moan, turning into a faint breathless sound of heat against his lips. “Don’t -- don’t you?”

“Idiot,” Hayato tells him again, his hips coming up off the floor so he can thrust against the too-slow drag of Takeshi’s hold on him. Takeshi whines at the slide of Hayato against his palm, the heat against his skin surging to his own cock as if they’re directly connected, and he ducks in against Hayato’s shoulder as fingers wind into his hair and fist into a bracing hold as the other’s lips catch and skim his jawline. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Forever,” Takeshi says, pressing his mouth to Hayato’s shoulder as he rocks down to grind at Hayato’s hip, to let the friction of the other’s jeans surge electricity up his spine. “Always.”

“Demanding,” Hayato manages, but the word comes hard, shivering on the tremors of reaction Takeshi can feel running through the other’s body. Hayato’s cock is going slick under his hold, precome catching against Takeshi’s fingers, and Takeshi’s finding a rhythm to his movement, matching the downward tilt of his hips to the desperate upward thrusts Hayato is taking into his hand. The fist in his hair tightens, tugs up to the edge of pain, and Hayato’s mouth tenses at his jaw, presses a kiss to the skin so quickly Takeshi almost doesn’t notice it. “I love you, you ridiculous idiot.”

“I love you too,” Takeshi says. Hayato is breathing harder against his neck, his fingers under Takeshi’s shirt sliding up to dig against the other’s spine and scratch lines of heat over his back. Takeshi quivers with it, gasps breathless appreciation for the friction as he presses his thumb in hard against Hayato’s cock. “I love you so, so much, Hayato.”

“I know you do,” Hayato tells him, but he sounds distracted, sounds strained to match the tremor Takeshi can feel humming through his body. “Don’t you goddamn stop, Takeshi.”

“I know,” Takeshi says, and “I won’t,” but Hayato’s not answering; he’s gasping for air instead, his spine curving up into one held tremor of want. Takeshi can feel the other’s thighs shaking with the effort, can hear every inhale Hayato drags into his lungs, and he moves faster, twisting his wrist to a better angle so he can stroke over Hayato and speed the frantic rhythm of the other’s movement against his palm. Nails dig into his skin, fingers drag at his hair, and then Hayato groans something low and strained and jerks under Takeshi, coming in a sudden rush of heat over the flat of his stomach. Hayato’s gasping for air, his body shaking through the rush of orgasm, and Takeshi’s still pressed flush against his hip, the weight of his body the only thing pinning Hayato down. He can feel each jolt of pleasure hit the other, can feel the tiny involuntary shudders of relief as he comes, and it’s too much, the sound of Hayato’s gasping breathing in his ears and the quiver of his body under him, and Takeshi chokes off a helpless “ _Hayato_ ” as his hips rock him forward and into the surrender of heat in his own veins. His breathing stutters, his body shakes, and when he gasps air he can taste fireworks on his tongue, can catch the heat of Hayato’s skin against his lips. He’s still holding to the slick flush of Hayato’s cock, his motions stalled in the wave of pleasure as he pulses heat against the other’s hip, and he can’t see anything behind his pressed-shut eyes but white gold.

Hayato’s grip has eased by the time Takeshi collects himself enough to loosen his sticky hold on the other’s cock and take his weight back over shaking legs and the trembling brace of his arm.  The fingers in Takeshi’s hair shift, smooth the strands down against the back of his neck; when he blinks himself back into vision Hayato is watching him, his mouth quirked on a smile that Takeshi is sure is as unconscious as it is soft.

“I love you,” Takeshi tells him, because it’s the only reasonable thing to offer to that smile, and because it’s true.

Hayato laughs, a tiny breathless huff of air, and tightens his fingers on the back of Takeshi’s neck. “I know you do,” he says, tugging to urge the other down closer. “Come here, idiot.”

Takeshi leans down obediently, lets Hayato pull him into a kiss while he fits his fingers to the line of the other’s waist and shifts his thumb to press against the gentle curve at the bottom of Hayato’s ribcage.

He’d rather map the lines of Hayato’s body than the streets of the city anyway.

 


	4. Sunset

Hayato hates to admit it, but it might have been worth leaving the hotel room for this.

It’s not the beach alone that’s persuading him, although the bright white of the sand _is_ beautiful, and the more so with the setting sun casting the pale of their surroundings into shades of orange and gold that dip closer to red every time Hayato blinks. He can appreciate the aesthetics of their surroundings without capitulating to the value of leaving the hotel room that has taken on the comfort of home in the span of the few days since they’ve arrived, and if it were just the beach, he would rather be caught in the comfortable tangle of blankets on their bed and maybe starting in on a bottle of wine to complement the sunset.

“This is beautiful,” Takeshi says from the edge of the waterline, splashing a handful of steps forward until the ocean is swirling around his knees and lapping against the edge of his swimsuit with each breaking wave. He tips his head back, turns his face up towards the golden glow of the sky overhead, and Hayato feels his heart tighten, affection hitting in the irrational way it sometimes does when he sees Takeshi fiddling with a pen or smiling over dinner or sprawled diagonally across the width of their bed. It’s his shoulders that do it, this time, the flex of muscle across the smooth line of them as he leans forward to dip his hands to the cool of the water, and Hayato watches the sunlight play off the tan of Takeshi’s skin and admits -- silently, and only to himself -- that it was worth coming outside to see Takeshi glowing gold in the light. Takeshi takes another step out, a big one, enough to dip the top edge of his shorts under the water and let the ocean lap across the line of his chest, and then he ducks forward, vanishing under the reflective shine off the waves for a moment as he dives under the surface. Hayato trails him, crossing the boundary of the surf against the sand to let saltwater splash over his ankles, and Takeshi surfaces some feet away, turning to look back at the other as he shakes the ink-wet of his hair into a messy halo around familiar features.

“Come on,” he calls, lifting a hand to wave as if maybe Hayato can’t see him, as if he’s not still so near even the bright of his smile is perfectly clear to Hayato’s eyes. “It feels good!”

“I know it does,” Hayato informs him, growling as if the words are a protest even as he strides forward into the water in obedience to Takeshi’s gesture to approach. “I’ve been to a beach before.” He tips forward into motion with less violence than Takeshi showed, gently enough that only the trailing ends of his hair dip into the weight of damp, and takes a few easy strokes forward to catch up to where Takeshi is treading water with the same effortless athleticism that used to grit jealous irritation into Hayato’s jaw. Now it’s Takeshi’s smile that he’s watching instead of the smooth elegance of his movements, catching the contagion of effervescent happiness all over the other’s expression into a quirk of a smile at his own lips.

“Hi,” Takeshi says, the greeting idiotic in its simplicity and so charming it pulls a laugh out of Hayato’s throat.

“Idiot,” he offers by way of response, reaching up to shove a hand through the ocean-wet of Takeshi’s hair. It’s supposed to be a push, or at least to carry enough force to ruffle the locks up out of their already non-existent order, but Takeshi leans into it, his eyelashes fluttering into shadow as he smiles at the contact. The sunlight catches on his lashes, settles warmth over the curve of his cheekbones and along the soft of his lips; it’s like it’s kissing him, touching heat to all those points that draw Hayato’s attention as if to suggest the action to him as well. Hayato’s fingers settle against Takeshi’s jaw, slipping down to fit against the curve of his throat and along the shift of his shoulder as he moves, and Takeshi opens his eyes again, his unconscious smile going softer and warmer even than it was as he sees Hayato looking at him.

“I love you,” he says, apropos of nothing at all.

Hayato huffs a laugh. “I know you do,” he says, and pulls at Takeshi’s shoulder, urging them closer until their shoulders touch and Takeshi’s knees bump against his. “You don’t have to keep telling me.”

“I do,” Takeshi insists. His mouth is red in the fading light, the wet from the ocean dripping from the ends of his hair and clinging damp to his lashes. When he blinks his eyes catch the sunset to go golden all at once, the hazel brightening to something jewel-clear. “I want to.”

“ _Want_ to,” Hayato repeats. “Not _need_.”

“Oh.” Takeshi’s lashes shift again; Hayato can see his gaze slide down, his eyes lingering at the other’s mouth instead of coming back up to meet his eyes. He licks against his lower lip, leaves a shine of wet against it. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Hayato tells him, leaning in closer to bump his nose against Takeshi’s, to smile into the way Takeshi lifts his chin and parts his lips in anticipation of more than glancing contact. “I’m always right.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, and that’s not really agreement -- Hayato knows him too well to make that mistake -- but he’s smiling, and he’s warmer than the water, and Hayato might not need to kiss him but he _wants_ to. It’s easy to lift his chin, to pull himself close by his hold at Takeshi’s shoulder, and then their mouths slide together, the salt on Hayato’s lips catching and dissolving under the sweet warmth of Takeshi’s mouth on his. Takeshi hums, incoherent approval vibrating in his throat, and Hayato tugs harder on his shoulder, gives up on the balance of his free hand completely in favor of reaching out to hold to Takeshi’s shoulders. He’s pushing hard -- it’s Takeshi keeping him above water now as much as the movement of Hayato’s legs -- but Takeshi doesn’t so much as flinch, and when he whimpers it’s a note of encouragement rather than one of protest. Hayato hooks an arm around Takeshi’s shoulders, lets his hold steady out most of his movement, and when he pulls back for a moment it’s only to grin down at the upward tilt of Takeshi’s face, to watch the way the setting sun turns the shift of Takeshi’s lashes into shadow and the part of his lips into heat.

“Keep us above water,” he orders. Takeshi blinks hard, visibly struggling for comprehension, and Hayato leans back in again to kiss him right back out of it. There’s vibration at his lips, a whine from far in the back of Takeshi’s throat, but the water is still lapping against their shoulders and not their necks, so Hayato doesn’t pull away. He stays close instead, leaning harder on Takeshi when he can’t find a good rhythm for the motion of his legs, and when he slides his hand away from the other’s neck it’s only to press against his shoulder, to dip down below the surface of the water and trail against the warmth of the skin half-hidden by the mirror of the water. Takeshi hums against his mouth, arching forward in an attempt to get impossibly closer, and Hayato smiles and drags his hand down farther, tracing along the lines of Takeshi’s chest and down to the tension against his stomach as if he needs his sense of touch to find his way. Takeshi shivers as Hayato’s hand dips lower, starts to smile against the other’s mouth, and Hayato’s grinning too, the tension at his lips enough to break him apart from the breathless heat of Takeshi’s mouth.

“Don’t stop swimming,” he says, a reminder in case Takeshi’s lost traction on the thought for the drag of his touch. Takeshi nods, a jerky movement still clear in its agreement, and Hayato lets his fingertips catch and slide under the elastic waistband of the other’s swimsuit. Takeshi catches a breath, his movements going jerky for a moment, but he steadies before Hayato can decide to pull away, catching them both against the water as Hayato’s fingers curl in around his hip.

“Right now?” Takeshi asks, a question more rhetorical than judgmental. His lashes are dark, his eyes drifting against Hayato’s mouth; Hayato can see the setting sun in the haze of his eyes, can see the glow of it dipping under the horizon and into the shadows of twilight as the gold around them fades to blue-grey.

“Sure,” Hayato says without looking around to point out the lack of company or the relative cover granted by the dark of the water around them. His hand slides sideways, he spreads his fingers wide against the tension in Takeshi’s stomach and down to the tremble under his skin; his two smallest fingers fit under the elastic, pressing against the edge of a hip Hayato knows shows the pale almost-translucence of skin lacking the sun-kissed tan of the rest of Takeshi’s body. He slides down farther by an inch, lets his fingertips skim against the top edge of curling hair, and Takeshi hisses a gasp, his hips rocking forward in involuntary answer before Hayato has even framed his question. “Unless you want to wait.”

“No,” Takeshi says immediately, and he’s pushing closer, tipping in to chase another kiss off Hayato’s mouth. His leg catches between Hayato’s, offers a moment of resistance for the other’s hardening cock; Hayato lets Takeshi kiss him into a surge of heat, feels himself swelling as he pushes his hand farther past the edge of Takeshi’s clothes.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to,” he purrs, satisfaction layering his tone, and he curls his fingers around the base of Takeshi’s cock, dragging gently up over the other to urge him farther into arousal. Takeshi whimpers an exhale, rocks himself forward into the other’s hand, and he’s half-hard already, as quick to respond to Hayato’s touch as he has ever been. Hayato knows how to move, here, knows how to shift his fingers to coax Takeshi hotter fastest; even the odd buoyancy of the water supporting them isn’t enough to distract him from that. It only takes a few strokes before Takeshi is gasping against his shoulder, his hips rocking forward in tiny desperate motions more than counteracted by the motion of the waves around them, but Hayato doesn’t need the grind of Takeshi against him to urge him harder. He’s there already, was even before he pulled Takeshi into heat to join him; it’s something about the water, he thinks, the unfamiliarity of the setting making this easy action thrillingly novel, or maybe the fact that the beach is still in clear sight, that any passers-by would be able to see the dip of Takeshi’s head at Hayato’s shoulder and take a guess at what they’re doing even if the water grants them some level of cover.

“Keep swimming,” he reminds Takeshi, as if they are in any danger of dipping lower in the water, as if Takeshi hasn’t been doing more than his share in keeping them both at the surface. Takeshi doesn’t protest and doesn’t stop; he keeps moving, kicking in a gentle rhythm to hold them where they are while Hayato pushes the edge of his swimsuit down over the edge of his hips to hang against the tension of his thighs. Takeshi takes a breath, his chin ducking down like he’s trying to see what Hayato’s doing, but Hayato doesn’t bother looking; he won’t be able to see anything anyway, with the dark of the fading light turning the water as ink-black as Takeshi’s hair. He relies on touch instead, trailing his fingers over Takeshi’s hip a moment before pulling away to drag at the tie of his own swimsuit.

“Ah,” Takeshi manages, the sound coming hot against the damp curve of Hayato’s shoulder. The knot at the front of Hayato’s swimsuit comes undone, loosening the waistband enough for Hayato to push the front down by inches and past the heat of his cock. Takeshi’s leg slides higher again, rocking in against Hayato’s thighs for a moment; the friction is glancing, momentary pressure rather than relief, but Hayato pushes into it anyway, dragging himself closer by his hold around Takeshi’s neck. “ _Hayato_.”

“I know,” Hayato growls, heat and anticipation turning the words hotter and rougher than he intends. He hooks a leg around Takeshi’s hip, pinning the edges of their swimsuits in place between his body and Takeshi’s; when he pulls himself closer his hand catches between warm skin, his hips sliding into alignment against the heat of Takeshi’s cock. “ _Fuck_.”

“Oh,” Takeshi gasps, and Hayato pushes his hand in closer and curls his fingers into a hold at the base of Takeshi’s length. Takeshi chokes an inhale, rocks himself forward, and Hayato is there to meet him, tipping them as close as he can manage so he can stretch and catch his thumb around his own cock too. He steadies his grip, feeling his way to coordination by touch instead of by sight, and Takeshi shudders, gasping at Hayato’s shoulder like he’s drowning instead of still safely above the water.

“Yeah,” Hayato purrs, more pointless agreement, and then he strokes over them, the grip of his fingers holding them together as he moves. The motion is strange, heavy with the water and lacking some of its usual friction, but Takeshi jerks anyway, the jolt of his hips pushing heat against the underside of Hayato’s cock. He’s lifting his head again, turning his chin up for a kiss, but Hayato can’t spare the attention for it; he tips his forehead against Takeshi’s instead, presses the weight of his head against the other’s, and when he inhales it’s as damp and humid as the water holding them up. There’s salt on his lips, a groan in his throat; when he takes a breath it’s all heat, fire to match the rising wave of friction forming under the steady drag of his fingers. Takeshi is gasping, tiring from the physical exertion or just going breathless with sensation, Hayato isn’t sure which; he’s certainly hot enough for the latter, Hayato can feel the heat of his cock radiant against the motion of the water. The contrast is satisfying, the cool drag of the ocean rushing against the warm friction of Takeshi against him; when Hayato shifts his wrist and moves faster the water dips between their bodies, catching into tiny ripples that splash and break against Takeshi’s shoulders.

“Takeshi,” Hayato starts, hearing his voice go low as it rumbles itself over vibration in his chest, against his throat, hot and dragging over his tongue. “Are you okay?” Takeshi moves his head but it’s too fast, too short; Hayato can’t identify it as a nod or a shake, can’t read enough meaning from the tension across Takeshi’s forehead and hot over his skin to make sense of it. “ _Takeshi_.”

“I’m,” Takeshi manages, choking the word off into silence. “I’m.” And then he shudders, his body trembling as he whimpers a moan into the air, and Hayato can feel him pulse into orgasm as he gasps at the salt-heavy air. Hayato groans, appreciation as hot as surprise in his throat, and Takeshi sighs relief, tiny tremors running through his body as Hayato draws the last of the aftershocks out of him. It’s only a moment; then Takeshi lifts his head, and opens his eyes, and Hayato is letting him go even before he’s seen the pleasure-black shadows in the other’s gaze.

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, and “Quiet,” Hayato tells him, ducking his head in to press against his arm while he tightens his grip on the ache in his own cock. He falls into a fast rhythm, quicker than the one he had a moment ago; it’s a relief, to have so much sensation, until even the distraction of the water lapping at his body fades into the distance, until he can feel the promise of heat surging higher along his spine and low in his stomach. He rocks closer, presses hard at Takeshi’s hip; when he angles his hand down he can press himself to the tremor at the other’s stomach, can drag the head of his cock against Takeshi with each stroke of his hand.

Takeshi’s mouth brushes his hair, lips shaping a kiss against the damp strands. “Hayato,” he says again, low and warm and stunned, and Hayato groans, choking off the sound at Takeshi’s shoulder as his hips buck forward and his cock spurts heat against the other’s stomach. For a moment there’s just warmth, the electric tension of pleasure running itself through all Hayato’s veins; then the first rush passes, his body eases into relief instead, and he sighs and lets his hold go.

“Wow,” Takeshi breathes, sounding a little shocked and a lot delighted as Hayato untangles his arm and pushes back to take his own weight again. His arms are shaking a little, his legs more so, but it’s easy enough to find enough pattern to his movement to keep his head up out of the water. “That was amazing.”

Hayato doesn’t answer. He looks up instead, to the darkening blue of the sky overhead, where the first star of the evening is coming into view as the sunlight fades.

“It’s late,” he says. He reaches down to tug at the edge of his swimsuit and urge it back into place; he’ll need to retie the knot at the front, but that can wait until he can better trust his shaky hands. “We should go back to the hotel room.”

Takeshi laughs. When Hayato looks back at him he’s smiling all over his face, his expression warm and radiant to match the softness collecting heavy at the corners of his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, and comes forward by the few inches between them. His nose bumps Hayato’s cheek, the damp of his hair catching against Hayato’s forehead. “Sounds good.”

Hayato doesn’t reach out to replace his hold around Takeshi’s neck, nor does he reach out to push his hand through the other’s hair. He just turns his chin up, makes an offering of his mouth that he knows Takeshi will take, and for a moment their lips are pressed together as easily as if they were on shore. It’s only for a breath -- then a ripple of water catches them, breaks them away by an inch, and Takeshi is left laughing while Hayato rolls his eyes and lets himself splash under the water to wet the tangle his half-damp hair has become.

Even with salt at his lips, he can taste Takeshi on his tongue.


	5. Unfocused

Hayato is a very light sleeper.

Takeshi knows this. It’s hard to miss after sharing a bed for what’s rapidly approaching a decade, and Takeshi’s never been unobservant when it comes to Hayato. He knows about the other’s chronic insomnia, knows about the way he sometimes slips out of bed in the middle of the night only to fall asleep on the living room couch to the white noise of the television, knows that even Takeshi getting up for a glass of water is enough to stir him to grumbling protest. Takeshi learned years ago that the movement of getting off the bed is enough to jar Hayato into consciousness, that moving too fast or sighing too loud will bring the other awake in the gap between one second and another. He knows exactly what movements and sounds will pull Hayato to awareness, knows how fast the other can go from unconscious to coherently alert, knows how incredibly careful he has to be if he is to move at all and let Hayato go on sleeping.

Luckily, Takeshi has _very_ steady hands.

He’s been awake for almost a half hour, lying as still and quiet as if he were still asleep but for the careful movement of his hands as he works a tie under the tangle of Hayato’s hair on the pillow. Hayato’s been frowning in his sleep, protesting what Takeshi is trying to do even while he remains unconscious, but he hasn’t opened his eyes, and his breathing is still following the soft rhythm he never finds except in sleep, and Takeshi has nearly achieved the goal he’s been working towards. Even as he shifts his weight Hayato turns, rolling over and away so the blanket around him slides off bare shoulders, and Takeshi is left with the trailing end of the tie laid across the pillow under Hayato’s head. He reaches over Hayato, careful not to so much as brush a fingertip across the other’s cheek as he finds the other end of the tie, and then he pulls it up and over Hayato’s eyes in one swift movement. Hayato takes an inhale, a startled gasp of air as he comes awake, but Takeshi’s knotting the ends of the tie together to hold the fabric down before the other has a chance to react.

“ _Ah_ ,” Hayato says, twisting over onto his back just as Takeshi gets the knot set into place. Hayato’s arm comes up, swings to smack against Takeshi’s chest as his other lifts to touch the weight of the tie over his eyes. “What--”

“It’s just me,” Takeshi says, fast, before Hayato can work himself into a panic about the unexpected darkness. “Morning, Hayato.” The hand at his chest is sliding sideways, Hayato’s palm turning over to feel along the line of his shoulder, and Takeshi leans in close, pushing Hayato’s hand away from the blindfold so he can press his palm against the other’s cheek instead and catch his mouth in a kiss. Hayato’s lips are parted on confusion, his forehead creased in early-morning irritation, but he makes a startled noise as Takeshi’s mouth touches his, sucks in a rush of air in surprise at the unexpected contact. Takeshi hums, intending it as much for comfort as pleasure, and shuts his eyes to join Hayato in darkness for a moment so he can focus on the texture of the other’s mouth against his. Hayato’s hand catches at his shoulder, slides up to dig into Takeshi’s hair, and when he pulls it’s to urge Takeshi closer, to hold him still while Hayato sucks his lower lip against the edge of teeth and bites an ache of heat out into his blood. Takeshi groans, shifts himself closer as if the friction is a command, and Hayato pulls back enough to catch a breath without moving away from the press of Takeshi’s knee against his.

“Takeshi,” he says, his voice rumbling over early-morning heat and into a resonance that probably should sound dangerous and just sounds suggestive to Takeshi’s ears. “What are you _doing_?”

“Something new,” Takeshi admits. He presses himself closer against the edge of Hayato’s hip where he can fit himself flush to bare skin without the tangled barrier of the sheet between them. “Do you mind?”

“You woke me up,” Hayato tells him, but it sounds more like an observation than anger, no matter how hard he tries to make it into a growl, and he’s not reaching to push the blindfold free.

“Sorry,” Takeshi says, and tucks his head in close enough to press another kiss of not-quite-apology at the soft of Hayato’s mouth. “I woke up early.”

“You could have let me sleep,” Hayato growls, even though Takeshi knows there’s no way he could have extricated himself from the blankets without waking the other. “Or _not_ tied a blindfold on me.”

“Sorry,” Takeshi says again, and this time his voice is purring so low even he doesn’t believe himself. “It seemed like it could be fun.”

“For _you_.” Hayato’s hand twists into a fist of Takeshi’s hair, drags hard against the strands for a moment while his other flattens at the other’s shoulder like he’s trying to brace himself steady. “I can’t even see you, how is that _fun_?”

“That’s the point,” Takeshi tells him, smiling even though Hayato won’t be able to see the expression at his lips, even though Hayato’s mouth is still drawn into a frown of irritation at Takeshi’s claim. “It’s better if you don’t know what I’m doing.”

“ _What,_ ” Hayato says, but Takeshi’s moving, pushing the blankets down and off pale skin to bare the slope of Hayato’s shoulder and the curve of his waist to the air. Hayato cuts himself off, hisses into a gasp of anticipation instead, and Takeshi smiles wider, lets his gaze drift away from Hayato’s startled-soft mouth and down to the shudder of tension across his chest, to the flex of movement as his hand tightens in Takeshi’s hair. The temptation of bare skin is too much to resist, even if Takeshi were at all interested in attempting such restraint; as it is he’s reaching out before he’s had a chance to think and dragging his fingertips across the shiver of breathing in Hayato’s chest. Hayato tenses instantly at the contact, his whole body shuddering into reaction as if Takeshi has shocked him, and then Takeshi presses his palm flat over the curve of Hayato’s ribcage and Hayato exhales in a rush of heat.

“See,” Takeshi says, drawing his hand away from Hayato’s jawline to push the blankets down farther, to clear the path of the sunlight from the half-covered window on its way to Hayato’s hip and the inside curve of his ankle. “It’s more exciting this way, isn’t it?”

“Fuck,” Hayato breathes, and he’s shaking, Takeshi can see his foot arching, can see his toes digging into the mattress for purchase even though Takeshi has barely touched him, hasn’t done anything more suggestive than tugging the blankets down and off him. “Don’t stare at me.”

“I’m not,” Takeshi insists. He watches the line of the blindfold as he lets his hand drift down, as he fits his fingers to Hayato’s hip by touch instead of by sight. “I’m looking at your face, Hayato, I promise.”

“You’re not,” Hayato says, his mouth curving into a frown as his back arches, as his hips rock off the bed in pursuit of a firmer touch than Takeshi is giving him. Takeshi doesn’t have to look down to know Hayato’s going hard; he can see that just from the color rising under his skin, from the catch and push of teeth as Hayato bites against the give of his lower lip. “I can _feel_ you looking at me.”

“I’m not,” Takeshi says again, easy and insistent, and leans in close to prove it with a kiss. Hayato jumps at the contact, shivering all through his body as if Takeshi’s never kissed him before, and Takeshi catches the other’s mouth under his to stop whatever whimper of sound threatens Hayato’s composure. The hand in his hair slides higher, fingers spreading wide to brace him in place, and Takeshi capitulates without a fight, opens his mouth to the drag of Hayato’s tongue over his lips and lets Hayato kiss him into at least the appearance of submission. Takeshi’s blood is going hot, his body tensing itself into the beginning of anticipation, but Hayato’s ahead of him when he braces himself on an elbow and lets his fingers trail sideways from the other’s hip. Hayato’s hot to the touch, his cock heavy against the flat of his stomach, and he jerks when Takeshi touches him, his whole body arcing off the bed to push into the other’s touch at the first ghosting contact.

“Shit,” Hayato growls, his mouth so close to Takeshi’s that the edges of the sound run rough on the other’s lips. “What are you going to _do_?”

Takeshi laughs. “I can’t tell you,” he says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Hayato’s returning frown. “If you know the blindfold doesn’t make any difference, right?”

“It makes a difference,” Hayato grumbles, but he lets his hold on Takeshi’s hair go when the other rocks back and away so he can sit up over his knees on the give of the mattress. Hayato’s silver and gold in the sunlight, his skin glowing bright enough to match the shine of his hair, but Takeshi only lets himself stare for a moment before he draws his eyes and his fingers away from Hayato’s body so he can lean sideways and reach for the bottle on the bedside table. Hayato shifts, angles his knees wider in the difference of a few inches that manages to both be an invitation and express irritated impatience at once, but he doesn’t grab for Takeshi and doesn’t tell him to stop moving. “Knowing _what_ you’re going to do isn’t the same as knowing _how_ you’re going to do it.”

“Do you want me to tell you, then?” Takeshi asks. He catches the lid of the bottle between his fingers, curls his hand over the cap; when he pushes it open with a thumb his hold muffles the snap of the action, obscuring the sound into something too faint to hear clearly, much less identify.

“I already know the first part,” Hayato sighs, achieving something impressively close to resignation in his tone. “Tie what is probably my own damn tie over my face while I’m _asleep_ so you can indulge in some ridiculous idea of kinky sex.”

“It’s not that kinky,” Takeshi tells him. The lube is cold on his fingers; he lets it puddle against his palm, closes his hand around it to warm the slippery liquid to body temperature. “And it’s my tie.”

“Of course,” Hayato allows. “You _would_ abuse perfectly good clothing like this.”

“It’s fine,” Takeshi soothes. He shifts his knees against the bed, braces himself on the give of the mattress; when he reaches out his pinky finger catches at the inside of Hayato’s thigh, jolting a shudder through the other and blowing all the air from his lungs so suddenly the exhale sounds like a whimper. Takeshi’s blood goes hot in his veins, his breathing stutters into a catch in his throat, but his hands are still steady, his fingers still shifting smoothly as he slides his touch higher along the inside of Hayato’s thighs. “It’s fine, Hayato.”

“It’s careless,” Hayato says, settling his argument into a track so well-worn Takeshi can hear distraction even as Hayato takes a breath to continue, can see the tremor along the inside of his thighs as he cants his knees apart to make more space for Takeshi’s fingers. “You can’t abuse nice clothes like that. This is why you wear t-shirts and jeans all the time.”

“Right,” Takeshi agrees, because Hayato’s mostly right and more immediately because he has other things to think about, like how hot Hayato’s skin is to the touch and how easy-slick his fingers are gliding over the other’s body. “You’re right.”

“I know I am,” Hayato says, and then Takeshi presses gently and Hayato’s words fall to silence for a heartbeat as Takeshi’s finger slides an inch into him. Takeshi can see the unvoiced sounds shifting in Hayato’s throat, can see the way his head tips back on the first rush of sensation; his heart is pounding in his chest so loud he can taste the rhythm at the back of his tongue, all his skin is flushing warmer even than the first sunlight of the morning, and Hayato’s hand is coming out to clutch at his knee, his fingers digging into the first point of connection he finds. Takeshi pushes in deeper, lets his finger sink in past the first knuckle and towards the second, and Hayato sucks in a desperate inhale and forces himself back into straining speech.

“Is this it?” he asks as his knees go wider, as his cock spills a few shining drops of precome to land sticky at his stomach. Takeshi’s eyelashes feel heavy, his mouth feels soft; he pushes in deeper, lets his tongue touch damp across his mouth as he watches the tension play across Hayato’s stomach. Hayato shifts, twisting himself into a different angle on the mattress; Takeshi can feel the movement drag around his finger, can feel all Hayato’s actions before he can see them. “You don’t have to blindfold me just to finger-fuck me.”

“No,” Takeshi agrees, and he has to shut his eyes for a moment, has to cut off the too-much of sunshine on bare skin and tension in pale shoulders and just focus on the drag of Hayato around him, on the way the other’s body clenches against his touch like it’s drawing him deeper, like it’s urging him to push harder. “That’s not all.”

“You’re going to fuck me properly too?” Hayato says, the words tangling on his lips. Takeshi can hear him struggling for a taunt, can hear the attempt of an edge on the words, but it’s too much for even Hayato to sustain under the circumstances, and all the heat that’s supposed to be grating just turns over into the raw edge of desire instead. Takeshi draws his hand back, slides his finger free entirely; he can hear the damp as Hayato licks his lips in an unconscious echo of Takeshi’s own bracing movement as he shifts his hand to align a pair of fingers with the other’s entrance. “At least you’re not _totally_ wasting the opportunity.”

“I’m not wasting anything,” Takeshi says into the dark, and then he opens his eyes so he can watch Hayato’s face as he urges two fingers into him. Hayato’s mouth falls open in the first wave of pressure, his forehead creases on the strain; Takeshi can feel his fingers dig deep against Takeshi’s knee, can watch the way his body trembles with the friction. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

“Oh good,” Hayato manages as Takeshi’s touch slides farther, as his body stretches around the width of the other’s fingers pushing into him. He’s not attempting even the illusion of anger anymore. “As long as--as _you’re_ satisfied.”

“I am,” Takeshi says, and thrusts in with his fingers, sinking the whole of them inside Hayato at a go. Hayato gasps an inhale, tremors through a jolt of reaction, and Takeshi is pulling back even before the other’s subsided to the sheets, spreading his hold on Hayato’s hip wider to hold him in place while he takes another slick slide with his fingers. Hayato makes a broken sound, something hot and raw and straining; Takeshi can see the tension collecting in his body, can see the way Hayato’s cock twitches against his stomach as Takeshi starts to push his fingers into him again.

“Fuck,” Hayato gasps, and there’s no anger, no frustration, just heat all along his throat to turn the usual growl of his voice inside-out into something sultry and obscene. “Takeshi, what are you _doing_?” Takeshi’s fingers slide farther and Hayato shudders with it, his back arching up into a perfect curve of heat for a moment before he falls back to the bed. “You’re...you’re doing something different.”

Takeshi shakes his head, forgetting Hayato can’t see him. “No,” he admits, angling his wrist into comfortable familiarity and spreading his fingers slightly apart to push Hayato open around his touch. “I’m doing just what I always do.”

“You’re not,” Hayato insists. His cheeks are flushed, the heat in his blood darkening all the way down the curve of his throat to collect at his collarbones; Takeshi can see the sunlight catch into a sheen off the sweat caught on his skin. “It feels different, you must be--”

“I’m not doing anything different,” Takeshi repeats. Hayato’s clenching around him, waves of reflexive reaction tensing him hot around the drag of Takeshi’s fingers; it makes Takeshi’s cock ache, spills dark heat low in his stomach until he can feel desire like a weight in his blood, like iron drawing him down towards the magnet of Hayato’s skin. “How does it feel?”

“Fuck,” Hayato growls. His foot shifts on the bed, his leg angling to brace his weight in place; for a moment he’s arching off the sheets to meet Takeshi’s movement, to match the thrust of the other’s fingers with the tilt of his hips. “Hotter. It feels like--” He frowns, like he’s reaching for a word that’s eluding him, and Takeshi dips his fingers in farther, curls the tips of them to press into slick-soft heat. Hayato jolts, fingers tensing until his nails dig hard into Takeshi’s skin. “ _More_.”

“It feels good?” Takeshi prompts.

“Yeah,” Hayato groans, achieving something akin to anger in the depth of the sound humming in his throat. “Fuck, Takeshi, are you going to make me wait all day, or is an hour enough time for you?”

“It hasn’t been an hour,” Takeshi protests, but he’s sliding his fingers back anyway, drawing his touch free of the grip of Hayato’s body while Hayato hisses and grabs at him as if to stop this obedience to his own demand. “It’s barely been five minutes.”

“Whatever,” Hayato says. “It feels like it’s been forever, I can’t tell what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on,” Takeshi tells him. He wraps his slick hand around himself, strokes over the heat of his cock to coat himself in lube; the slick glide of barely-there friction makes him shiver, unravels the taut edge of anticipation running down his spine. “It’s just me, Hayato.”

“I can’t tell where you are.” Hayato’s mouth is soft, his lips curving on the give of a frown; he lifts his free hand, stretches out into the air between them until his fingertips skim Takeshi’s shoulder and drag heat over his skin. “What are you _doing_?”

“It’s fine,” Takeshi soothes, reaching up to tangle his fingers with Hayato’s and press reassurance against the other’s skin. “I’m right here.”

“Come closer,” Hayato tells him, his fingers tensing so hard on Takeshi’s that the pressure aches through Takeshi’s knuckles. “Where I won’t lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Takeshi offers, but he’s leaning in anyway, obedient to the casual command of Hayato’s voice if not for the reason given. Hayato’s knees are angled wide already, the other’s position making itself an invitation without the need for words; Takeshi doesn’t have to try to fit himself into the gap they present. His knee bumps Hayato’s, his leg presses to bare skin, and Hayato lets his knee go to clutch for his shoulder instead, to curl the strain of his desperate hold around Takeshi’s neck.

“Here,” he says, hooking his legs around Takeshi’s waist and arching off the bed so his weight is dragging the other closer. “This is better.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi agrees, because it is, Hayato’s skin is hot to the touch and there’s something comforting about the desperate catch of fingers in his hair, something sweet about the way Hayato is clinging to his hand like he’s afraid Takeshi will evaporate if he’s not touching him. Takeshi can feel how fast Hayato’s breathing is coming from this close up, can take a breath and catch heat in his lungs; when he leans in closer Hayato’s cock bumps his stomach, the slick head of it pressing hard at Takeshi’s skin, but Hayato doesn’t make any move to let Takeshi go so he can reach for himself.

“Come on,” he growls, his frown dragging the words into rough edges as he strains closer, his hips leaving the bed entirely as he tries to get nearer to Takeshi’s body. “Come on, Takeshi, come _on_.”

“I am,” Takeshi insists. His elbow is heavy on the bed; when he angles his arm sideways he can catch his fingers into Hayato’s hair, can fit his palm against Hayato’s cheek. “I’m going.”

“Hurry up,” Hayato says, sounding strained, sounding frantic; Takeshi can feel his hold trembling, can hear how shallow and desperate his breathing is coming. “Fuck, Takeshi, I--” and Takeshi rocks his hips forward, and Hayato’s words die to a groan as Takeshi slides forward into him. It’s faster than Takeshi intended -- he had anticipated slow movement, had planned to go carefully with the rush Hayato made of preparation. But Hayato’s arching towards him, pressing his heels hard against Takeshi’s hips, and instead of slow and careful it’s all in one slick rush, Takeshi thrusting forward into the heat of Hayato’s body in a single motion. It’s overwhelming, to have so much sensation so abruptly, and for a moment Takeshi’s vision gives way to the white heat of friction, his breathing stalling out into a moan that makes him sound helpless and nearly in pain. But Hayato is growling, purring “ _Yes_ ” in a low rumble of sound Takeshi can feel vibrate through the whole line of his spine, and when he tightens his hold on Takeshi’s neck Takeshi is moving before he’s yet regained his composure, reflex and obedience aiding each other to flex his legs and move his body before he can yet see anything but the white-out silver of the heat surging through his veins. Hayato tenses around him, clutches a desperate handful of his hair, and on the second stroke he manages “ _Takeshi_ ,” so drawn-out and rough it sounds like approval, like the encouragement that always catches Takeshi by surprise when he gets it. There’s a hand at Takeshi’s hair, fingers seizing tight against his, and when Takeshi drags his vision back into focus Hayato’s mouth is open, his breathing coming so hard it’s staining his cheek red with color.

“Fuck,” Hayato says, and shifts his leg to dig his heel in hard at Takeshi’s hip. “ _Fuck_ , Takeshi, _faster_.”

“Yes,” Takeshi agrees, and “Okay” as he processes the request, and then he moves again, harder as ordered, bracing himself on the precarious support of one arm since Hayato still has a hold on his other hand. Hayato’s head tips back, his throat pulling into a column of pale skin, and Takeshi hears himself make a faint helpless noise as he moves again, taking another thrust to slide himself deep into the heat of Hayato’s body. Hayato’s throat shifts, some unvoiced sound sticking at the dip between his collarbones, and Takeshi pushes against their clasped hands, overcoming the shaky force of Hayato’s hold to pin the other’s arm down over his head so Takeshi can lean in over him. Hayato strains at the pressure, his arm flexing into a first attempt at pushback, but Takeshi drives into him again and the resistance evaporates, Hayato’s hold turning into clinging pressure instead of the lead-in to resistance.

“Fuck,” Hayato chokes. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, the name falling unthought from his lips, carried up to his tongue on the wave of heat rising in his blood, on the sensation that has taken over the movement of his body to pin them together with each forward thrust of his hips. “Hayato, Hayato, I love you.”

“I know,” Hayato gasps. “Fuck, Takeshi, don’t fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” Takeshi says, an easy promise given that he can’t remember how to still the motion of his body, can’t imagine anything before or after this moment, right now, with Hayato’s legs wrapped around him and Hayato’s fingers printing against his hand and the back of his neck. “I love you so much, Hayato.”

“I know you do,” Hayato says, but he sounds distracted, like he’s not really listening, like his mind is elsewhere. His mouth is open, his lips damp and flushed dark. “Takeshi, I--” and his words fail in the sudden grip of tension, his mouth coming open as he strains up and back over the sheets. Takeshi’s fingers tighten, he pushes forward hard, and Hayato shouts something bright and incoherent and comes, his cock spilling pulses of liquid over the quiver of heat along his stomach. Takeshi says something pointless, “Oh” or “ _God_ ” or “Hayato,” the sound shocked and warm on his lips, and then Hayato takes a desperate inhale and gasps “I love you” and everything in Takeshi’s head whites out into unbearable warmth. It’s inevitable, after that, just the last few strokes made unsteady and rushed on the promise of satisfaction, and then Takeshi takes a breath and breathes “Hayato” and comes, quivering himself over the edge of expectation and into release like he’s making an offering of his coherency. His mouth lands at skin, his lips press an open-mouthed kiss at Hayato’s jaw, and Hayato is gasping at his ear and tensing his hold at the back of Takeshi’s neck and Takeshi thinks maybe he’ll never move again.

Time comes back slow; seconds, first, the span of time between heartbeats and the sound of Hayato’s ragged inhales. Then minutes, the time it takes before Hayato finally shifts his knee to another position and Takeshi collects himself to push up over his bracing arm, and then the rest of it, memory and expectation and all the details of reality forming themselves like the world is coming back into focus along with Takeshi’s heat-blurred vision. Hayato doesn’t wait for him to unfasten the blindfold; no sooner is Takeshi pushing himself upright than Hayato is reaching to shove at the tie, rumpling his hair and dragging at his face and sliding the fabric free to shove aside without pausing to unfasten the knot Takeshi set into the silk. He looks disheveled, flushed to pink and with his hair tangling all over the pillow, his lips damp and still parted on his overheated breathing.

Takeshi smiles. “Morning.”

Hayato blinks hard at him, like he’s trying to pull himself back into the space of his body, like he’s collecting his thoughts from some vast field where they’ve been wandering, and then he tightens his expression into a frown, reinstating the crease in the middle of his forehead and the tension at his mouth.

“Morning,” he growls. “Nice to see you, Takeshi.”

Takeshi’s laugh is bright, warm and too loud and wholly lacking any edge of apology. He can see response quirk at Hayato’s lips, amusement tugging the edge of the other’s frown out of line, and when he leans in closer Hayato huffs something that is trying to be a scoff and tastes more like a laugh against Takeshi’s lips. Hayato’s fingers push up into Takeshi’s hair, both hands coming out to hold him where he is, and Takeshi shuts his eyes and lets Hayato kiss him out of focus.


	6. Control

“Takeshi,” Hayato says, his voice dipping into a warning audible even around the breathless heat in his throat. “You’re not watching.”

“What?” Takeshi sounds lost, hazy like he’s forgotten how language works; when Hayato looks up at him his chin is tilted down, his gaze is wandering across Hayato’s features and sticking to the shine of his hair with a dreamy focus that would be flattering under other circumstances. It _is_ flattering, even in the present moment, but Hayato’s not about to admit that out loud, not when Takeshi is patently failing at his assigned task.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hayato growls, achieving an impression of anger if not the real thing. It’s hard to pull the trappings of irritation around him when Takeshi is looking at him like he’s having trouble fitting Hayato’s existence into the mundanity of reality, when Takeshi’s eyes are shadowed over with affection that doesn’t need the shape of words to give it form. “Unless you _want_ to get caught getting your dick sucked?”

Takeshi’s smile is warmer than it should be, slow and spreading across all his face like he’s really giving the idea some thought. “I dunno,” he admits, and Hayato slides his hands into a steadier hold on Takeshi’s hips, braces his thumb in the dip just below Takeshi’s waist to pin him back against the balcony railing. “I don’t think I’d mind.”

“You’d mind if I stopped,” Hayato informs him. “Which I would.”

“No,” Takeshi protests, forming the word around the shape of a laugh as he reaches for Hayato’s hair and curls his fingers into the weight of it like the threatened cessation is in immediate danger of occurring. “No, no, don’t stop.”

“Keep watching then,” Hayato tells him, growling like he means it. Takeshi lifts his chin, still smiling as warm as the sunshine, and Hayato drops his gaze back to what he’s doing without waiting to verify that Takeshi is really paying attention to the silent street below. It’s a futile effort, he knows -- Takeshi is fundamentally incapable of keeping himself together when Hayato’s mouth is on him -- but if he’s not looking at least he has some plausible deniability regarding his belief in Takeshi’s focus.

“And stay quiet,” Hayato reminds him, digging his thumbs in hard to punctuate the statement. Takeshi laughs over him, happiness hot and trembling in his throat, and Hayato leans back in to slide Takeshi’s cock past his lips and over his tongue. Takeshi’s laugh cuts off, skids into a high whimper of a moan, but then he shuts his mouth and muffles the sound so Hayato doesn’t have to pull away and chastise him again. It’s a relief; Hayato doesn’t particularly want to stop, not when he can taste the bitter of precome against the back of his tongue and can feel the way Takeshi is trembling under the brace of his hands. He lets one hold go, slides his hand up to push against the bottom edge of Takeshi’s shirt, and Takeshi leans back against the railing, arching himself into an offering so Hayato can press his fingers against the flat line of his stomach. He’s warmer than the sunlight, radiant and very faintly damp with sweat; Hayato can see the sheen of moisture in the direct light from the sun, can trace the lines of it up Takeshi’s skin and over the flutter in his stomach as he slides in closer to take Takeshi’s cock farther back in his mouth. Takeshi reaches behind him, fumbles a hold onto the edge of the railing, and Hayato can see the white-knuckled tension in his grip as clearly as he can feel the flush of heat swelling Takeshi harder against the press of his lips. He keeps his eyes open, draws back for another slide of motion, and when he presses his tongue hard to the underside of Takeshi’s cock he can hear the way the other’s inhale catches in his chest.

“Oh,” Takeshi breathes, “ _Hayato_ ,” and Hayato should stop, probably, the sound of Takeshi’s voice says he’s not thinking about anything at all except for what Hayato is doing with his hands and his lips and his tongue, and they really could be seen if they’re not careful. But there’s something heady in Takeshi’s distraction, some purring satisfaction that runs through Hayato at knowing he’s the sole focus of the other’s attention for this moment, and he doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t stop. He pushes in closer, flattens his palm to Takeshi’s stomach and tightens his lips around Takeshi’s length, and when he sucks against the tension thus created Takeshi shudders a whimper muffled nearly out of audibility by his efforts at quiet. Hayato can feel power rushing through him like electricity, awareness of his own control of the moment firing him into crystalline appreciation, and when he moans it’s calculated, an offering of friction to the strain he can feel building in Takeshi’s stomach and can see trembling against his braced-out legs. Takeshi gasps, a desperate sound that’s too loud for their situation, but Hayato doesn’t care; it’s just another sign of his dominance, that just a groan in the back of his throat can undo the command of moments before. He’s going hard to the taste of salt on the back of his tongue, his blood flaring reaction as Takeshi’s breathing stutters in his chest; and then Takeshi whimpers a sound, something like Hayato’s name melted into incoherence, and Hayato goes all-over hot as Takeshi’s hips jerk forward and his cock spills into Hayato’s mouth. Takeshi’s coming, shaking against the railing and pulsing hot at Hayato’s tongue, and when Hayato groans this time it’s for the surge of want in his own body instead of to draw a deliberate response from Takeshi, surrendering sound to the way he is aching into painful arousal inside his jeans. He tightens his hold on Takeshi’s hip, grips tighter to distract himself from the way the head of his cock is going slick for want of friction, and Takeshi gasps himself into an exhale and rocks forward through the last rush of heat in him. Hayato waits to draw back until Takeshi’s hold on the railing eases, until he takes a full breath of calm, and then he slides back, collecting salt off Takeshi’s skin with his tongue to leave the other nearly clean by the time Hayato swallows his mouth empty.

“Oh,” Takeshi sighs, still leaning hard against the railing. Hayato drags his jeans back into place, makes some token effort of straightening the other’s clothes while Takeshi blinks dizzily up at the sky overhead. “ _Hayato_.”

“I should have stopped,” Hayato tells him, struggling to fit the words around the too-affectionate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You haven’t seen anything at all since I got your pants open.”

“Mm.” Takeshi looks down, lands the heat-haze of his eyes on Hayato’s face; his smile is lopsided on warmth, curving like it’s melting all across his face. “I’ve seen you.”

Hayato rolls his eyes. “Sap,” he accuses, and Takeshi laughs, letting his hold on the railing go so he can drop to his knees in front of Hayato. His hands land in Hayato’s hair, his fingers wind into the strands, and when he pushes in for a kiss Hayato gives into it, lets Takeshi sighs appreciation against his parted lips while Hayato braces himself against the other’s shoulder. Takeshi leans in harder, pushing against the railing behind him to urge them backwards, and Hayato knows where this is going and makes no attempt to stop it. Easier to slide backwards over the balcony, to retreat over the few feet of space until his shoulders hit the support of the far side. The metal braces at his back, Hayato lets his legs fall open, and Takeshi hums appreciation into his mouth and draws away after one lingering kiss to move down Hayato’s body towards his hips instead.

“Exhibitionist,” Hayato says, not without fondness, as Takeshi sprawls across the sun-warmed surface of the balcony and turns his attention to unfastening Hayato’s fly. “We could be back in bed for this, you know.”

“I know,” Takeshi agrees, lifting his chin to blink at Hayato through dark lashes while he drags down the pull of the other’s zipper. “But you wanted to be out here.”

“I never,” Hayato lies, trying to resist the urge to buck his hips up for contact as Takeshi’s fingers work their way inside his clothes to pull the fabric down and away from the flushed shape of his cock. “You came out here first.”

“And you started kissing me,” Takeshi points out, his smile going wider and catching the sunlight in his eyes. “We could have gone back inside then.”

“You were too desperate,” Hayato tells him, even though it was his hands that were shaking first, even though he was on his knees before Takeshi was even fully hard. “You always get like that and then I have to take care of you. It’s exhausting to keep you satisfied all the time.”

Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his tongue slides quick over his lower lip. “Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like agreement but it hits Hayato like a winning argument, surges electric through his veins and twitches heat into his cock. “I do get like that.”

“You do,” Hayato repeats. His voice is trembling in his chest, his throat straining on anticipation; Takeshi’s mouth is wet, his lips flushed darker than Hayato remembers them being, and he’s looking at Hayato’s face with so much shadow in his eyes that Hayato can feel his stare like it has physical weight. His cock is aching, his blood is alight, and when he speaks it comes out rough, grating itself into heat on the tension in his throat. “You going to keep talking, or do you want to do something more useful with your mouth?”

Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his chin dips. “Okay,” he says, and that’s not an answer but the way he ducks his head is, and then the heat of his mouth is sliding down over Hayato’s cock and any biting comment Hayato might have managed is lost to the pressure of an unvoiced moan in his chest. His knees splay wider of their own accord, his shoulders shove back against the railing, and Takeshi settles over him, his head bowed so all Hayato can see of him is the dark of his hair like ink in the sunlight. His lips are damp, his tongue is hot, and he’s coming in farther than Hayato expected, taking almost the whole of the other’s length back over his tongue in the first dipping motion. Hayato manages a breath, forces the sound that wants to come out of his throat into the shudder of an exhale instead, and when he reaches out it’s to settle his hand into the sun-warmed dark of Takeshi’s hair, to fit his fingers into the strands with the weight of possessiveness lying against his wrist. Takeshi hums approval, slides back by an inch to dip forward again, and Hayato tips his head back against the railing and sets his attention to the back of Takeshi’s neck, to the flex of effort he can see across the other’s shoulders as he holds himself up. There’s heat unwinding up his spine, curling low in his stomach, and everything is hot and slick and easy, even Hayato’s rising arousal following Takeshi’s unhurried pace instead of his usual anxious rush. He’s sagging at the railing, his whole body feeling radiant and heavy in the heat, and then Takeshi tightens his lips and sucks hard against the head of his cock and Hayato hisses appreciation and curls his fingers into the soft of Takeshi’s hair.

“Fuck,” he manages, soft and low so the sound won’t carry past the edge of the balcony. Takeshi makes a faint questioning noise, humming the sound of it into Hayato’s skin, and Hayato huffs an exhale and tilts his hips up into encouragement. “Yeah, fuck, do that again.” Takeshi ducks in farther, slicks his tongue over the head of Hayato’s cock, and Hayato shudders a sigh and lets himself fall heavy against the balcony, capitulating control of their rhythm to the steady motion of Takeshi’s head. There’s electricity in his veins, heat unfurling to tension in his stomach, and Takeshi isn’t pulling back, isn’t drawing his mouth away for even a breath of air. He’s just pushing in closer, farther, taking more of Hayato into his mouth like he can’t breathe without the heat of the other on his tongue, and Hayato is speaking without thinking, growling satisfaction in the low register the situation demands. “Yeah,” he says again, and “Takeshi, fuck,” and then, when Takeshi takes a breath through his nose and presses in to take Hayato just down his throat, “Fu _ck_ ,” hot and skidding to a volume Hayato didn’t intend. Takeshi moans something, Hayato can’t make out the shape of it, but the sound vibrates in his throat and thrums against the head of Hayato’s cock, and Hayato jerks and gasps and comes in long, shuddering waves down Takeshi’s throat. Takeshi’s swallowing hard, his throat working around Hayato’s length, and Hayato can’t see and can’t think and can’t do anything but let Takeshi draw him quivering through his orgasm. For a long span of seconds he’s too heat-stunned to think; then Takeshi draws back and away, and Hayato takes a breath, and the world reforms itself from the haze it had fallen into for a moment.

“Fuck,” he manages, easing his hold on Takeshi’s hair as the other rocks up over his knees, swallowing hard as he blinks himself into focus on Hayato’s face. “You’re damn good at that.”

Takeshi’s smile is easy, warm and curling taut at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah?” he asks, and he slides in closer, fitting his knees between Hayato’s and reaching out to press his fingers against the back of the other’s neck underneath the weight of his hair. “I was thinking maybe I need more practice.”

“Oh, well, of course,” Hayato tells him, curling his fingers into a fist at Takeshi’s shirt to tug him closer. “Isn’t that what you athletic types are all about, practice makes perfect and all that?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums. “Sure.”

Hayato heaves a sigh, dragging the sound into resignation even as his mouth twitches into the tension of a smile. “I’ll just have to put up with it, I guess,” he allows, working his fingers back against the curve of Takeshi’s neck so the other ducks his head and dips his eyelashes into a flutter of appreciation. “Someone’s got to be your practice partner, right?”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, but he’s smiling wide enough that Hayato doesn’t think he’s listening at all anymore, and when he lifts his gaze he looks warm and dazed with happiness. “Hayato?”

“God,” Hayato says, “I love you so much,” and pulls Takeshi into a kiss before he can frame the words to respond in kind.

He can taste himself on Takeshi’s lips.


	7. Attention

“Hayato,” Takeshi manages, ducking his chin so his head hangs heavy, so he can feel the strain of his position running all down the back of his neck to his braced-out arms. “ _Please_.”

“No,” Hayato tells him, purring the refusal into so much heat it might as well be agreement, might as well be slurring satisfaction instead of the cool of rejection. “This is payback, it’s pointless if I rush it.”

“Please,” Takeshi says again, though it’s skidding into a laugh in his throat, the heat of electricity in his veins sparking into delight on his tongue. He can feel his legs trembling against the edge of the bathroom counter, the cool of the surface barely taking the edge off the heat radiant across his skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.” Hayato sounds certain, steadier than Takeshi feels; when he twists his hand the friction shudders up Takeshi’s spine and flutters heavy at his eyelids. “You’d do it again, right?”

Takeshi huffs a laugh, surrender made easy by the words Hayato is offering him. “Yeah,” he admits, and Hayato pushes his fingers in deeper, thrusting hard enough into him that Takeshi can feel his toes curling against the tiled floor, can hear his voice drop off into breathless shadow. “ _Ah_.”

“Then you’re not really sorry,” Hayato pronounces over him. “Are you?”

Takeshi shakes his head, offering up the best answer he can give with his voice stolen by the friction of Hayato’s touch. “No,” he attempts, but it comes out as a whine, skids high and helpless in his throat. “I’m...I’m not.”

“Yeah.” Hayato’s touch slides back, almost all the way out of him; Takeshi shivers with the loss, his body aching more with the absence than it did with the pressure. “I know you’re not” and he thrusts in hard, the whole length of his fingers at once. Takeshi’s body seizes tight, his weight lifting up involuntarily over his toes as he tips in against the counter; the sound he makes is something uncontrolled, hot and so desperate the syllables of Hayato’s name in it are indistinguishable from a groan.

“Like that?” Hayato asks, growling until he sounds almost like he’s laughing, until Takeshi can hear satisfaction dripping off the pauses between the words. “Is that what you want?”

“Oh,” Takeshi gasps, his heart pounding in his chest, his legs straining like he can somehow work himself closer by sheer force of effort. “Hayato, _please_.”

“No,” Hayato says again, that same slow spill of sound as if he’s savouring the taste of the vowels on his tongue. “Look up, Takeshi, you’re supposed to be watching.”

Takeshi shivers with the reminder, his whole body prickling with heat at the thought; he has to brace his hand against the countertop, has to steady his balance before he can trust himself to lift his head and drag his reflection back into focus. Even then it takes effort; it’s hard to pay attention to his vision with Hayato’s fingers pushing up into him, harder still to process the picture they’re making in the mirror. It’s easier to look at himself than to look at Hayato, easier to blink at the vacant haze in his own eyes rather than to attempt to take in anything else at first. His cheeks are flushed, the color spilling down his face and catching into a sheen of sweat along his throat and at his collarbones; if he looks down farther Takeshi can see the tremor of tension along his stomach, can see the shake of effort straining through his legs and the support of his arms, can see how hard he is just over the edge of the counter. If he rocked himself forward and down he could press against the slick cool of the surface, could grind himself into some kind of relief, but Hayato’s still pushing hard into him and Takeshi doesn’t want flat resistance, he wants the weight of Hayato’s hand, wants the way he can feel each of Hayato’s fingers tighten around him when he jerks him off.

“Up,” Hayato’s voice orders, and Takeshi shudders against the vibration setting his blood alight. “Look _up_ , Takeshi.”

Takeshi braces his hand, and gasps a breath, and looks up. Hayato’s staring at him, his eyes dark and half-lidded into shadow and suggestion; his mouth is tight, caught at one corner into the threat of a smirk, his hair falling loose around his face like it’s trying and failing to cover his expression. His smile tugs wider when he sees Takeshi looking at him, his chin dips down into shadow, and Takeshi’s chest goes tight on too much affection to bear, his lungs straining like all the air has left the room.

“Good,” Hayato tells him, and spreads his fingers wider, wide enough that the pressure increases to the edge of pain, until Takeshi can feel the strain of not-quite-hurt rippling all the way down his back and shaking through his legs. “Keep looking at me.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi gasps. “Hayato, you’re so--”

“Don’t talk,” Hayato tells him, and slides his fingers back and out so suddenly Takeshi whines protest at the loss. “Just look.”

“But--”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Hayato growls, and Takeshi shuts his mouth, swallows back the volume in his throat to let it turn inside-out into heat in his chest. Hayato stares at him for another moment, his eyes gone dark with intensity; and then he looks away, down to the tremor in Takeshi’s legs and the angle Takeshi’s making of his feet. Takeshi can see his mouth curve, can see amusement and appreciation warring for control of the other’s expression, and then he looks down farther and his hair falls over his features to hide his eyes.

“Watch me,” Hayato says without looking up to see if Takeshi is obeying. He shifts his feet, kicks gently against the inside of the other’s foot; Takeshi takes a step wider, the stance lowering his weight by a half-inch, and Hayato purrs something incoherent and pleased as he steps in closer. “You put a blindfold on me when it was your turn.” A hand lands at Takeshi’s hip, fingers spreading wide to brace him as casually as if this is a regular occurrence, as if Hayato pushing him into the position he wants is perfectly ordinary. Hayato tosses his head to flip his hair out of the way; it catches on itself, stays clear of his face for a moment so Takeshi can see the focus in the other’s eyes as he looks down at what he’s doing. “Now it’s my turn and I want you to watch.” There’s the ghost of friction, heat skimming over Takeshi’s skin, and then pressure against him, hotter and harder than Hayato’s fingers, and Takeshi whimpers in spite of his best intentions to stay quiet. It seems to be enough that he tried, or maybe Hayato’s more concerned with coherency than with volume; he doesn’t offer a protest, anyway, doesn’t pull away the promise of his cock pushing against Takeshi’s entrance. Hayato shifts his feet, steadies his position, and then he looks up, raises his chin so the light catches off his features and his eyes meet Takeshi’s in the mirror in front of them. His smirk pulls wider, tightens hard at the corner of his mouth, and then he rocks his hips forward and starts to slide into the other’s body, and all Takeshi’s vision shivers into silver for a moment. His mouth comes open, his throat strains on some desperate sound, and Hayato keeps coming, thrusting forward until his hips are flush against Takeshi’s, until Takeshi can feel the whole heat of the other’s cock stretching him open.

“Look at me,” Hayato’s voice comes, echoing like it’s falling from some impossible distance; Takeshi blinks hard, forces himself back into the present moment until he can see his reflection again. He’s flushed darker now than he was, his cheeks hot with arousal and his lips parted on the damp of wordless appreciation, but he only looks at the haze in his eyes for a moment before he’s dragging his vision up over the dark of his hair to Hayato behind him. Hayato’s eyes are wide, so bright Takeshi can see the green in them; the light is catching off his hair, turning it to bright silver against the pale of his skin, and he’s pink all across his face, his cheekbones burning into color to match the flush of heat on his lips. Takeshi can see him take a breath, can see the way his mouth trembles with the effort, and then Hayato reaches out to press his hand across the dip between Takeshi’s shoulderblades.

“Down,” he says, but Takeshi is obeying the push before he parses the command, letting his elbows fold to drop him down against his forearms instead of his hands. The countertop is cool on his skin, clinging to the slick of sweat layering his body, and for a moment he wants to duck his head, wants to press his forehead to the support of his arms and pant for air against the cool of the surface. But the glass is beckoning, Hayato’s stare a demand Takeshi can’t ignore, and so he lifts his head instead and cranes his neck up so he can meet Hayato’s eyes again.

Hayato licks his lips. It’s an unconscious motion, Takeshi’s sure, the reflexive movement of damp against heat-dry skin, but it runs through Takeshi like fire, drags a whine of reaction from his throat like he’s making an offering of sound to the color of Hayato’s hair. Hayato blinks, his eyes coming back into focus on Takeshi’s, and Takeshi can hear the way he exhales, can hear the rush of air from his lungs like it’s been startled out of him.

“Good,” he says, distracted and hot, and he pushes against Takeshi’s shoulders to brace himself as he rocks back to slide almost completely out of the other’s body. “Like that.” And then he thrusts in again, a slick glide of pressure, and Takeshi moans, clinging to vision even as his attention narrows down to just the curve of Hayato’s smile, just the bright of satisfaction in his eyes. Hayato moves again, pressing hard enough to rock Takeshi against the edge of the counter, and this time there’s a catch of friction at the head of Takeshi’s cock, a burst of sensation that arches his spine and drags a shocked gasp out of his throat. Hayato’s eyebrows go up, a moment of surprise clearing the heat from his expression, and then he moves again, slower, stretching Takeshi open and then grinding deeper to shove the other forward over the counter.

“There,” he says, purring like he’s verifying something while Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter and his cock aches. “Keep watching me, Takeshi, let me see you.” The hand at Takeshi’s shoulders slides down, trailing against the curve of his spine and down to his hips; when Hayato presses Takeshi can feel the way it angles him forward, the way it shifts the angle of Hayato’s cock inside him. Hayato draws back, only halfway this time, and Takeshi can feel his entire body tingle with the minimal drag of friction, with the promise of pleasure just on the horizon. Then Hayato thrusts forward, sharp and sudden, and Takeshi’s eyes go wide, his vision blurring entirely to the rush of heat that hits him; he’s shaking against the countertop, his body tensing against the sudden satisfaction of the pressure, and there’s sound in his mouth, a shout of reaction so loud it echoes off the walls.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Hayato growls, heat given the shape of words, and his hand slides down, off Takeshi’s hips and around to fit between his stomach and the flat of the counter. Takeshi hisses an inhale, ducks his head for a moment of distraction, and Hayato’s fingers catch at his length, curl into a hold so tight Takeshi’s vision sparks white for a moment.

“Look at me,” Hayato says again, and jerks hard, the friction enough to tip Takeshi’s head back and drag his attention up to Hayato’s face again. Hayato’s leaning over him, his shoulder trembling from the effort of holding himself up against Takeshi’s hip; his hair is tangling around his face, his mouth parted on the hot damp of his breathing. His eyelashes flutter when Takeshi’s gaze steadies on him. “ _Yes_.” He takes another thrust, along the same angle as the last, and Takeshi jolts with another surge of heat, feeling his cock swell heavy with sensation even as Hayato’s fingers slide down to curl tight around the base. “I want to see how you look at me when I fuck you.”

Takeshi wants to answer. There are words in his throat, pleas for more and professions of love and the shape of Hayato’s name sweet as sunlight on his tongue. But the meaning slips away when he reaches for it, coherency evaporating with each stroke Hayato takes into his body, and he doesn’t really need words anyway, not when his breathing is turning into the heat of moans with every inhale, not when Hayato can feel how hard he is against the restraint of the other’s fingers. Hayato’s still staring at him, his teeth catching at the soft of his lip as he watches, and Takeshi doesn’t know what the other is seeing but he doesn’t look away, doesn’t duck his head even when the rush of heat in his veins surges against the grip of Hayato’s fingers on his cock, even when the ache of desire drags heavy at his lashes. His arms are going shaky, his body is rocking forward with each thrust Hayato takes, but he can see Hayato’s pupils dilating wide and black with pleasure, can see the strain of anticipation tensing in his forehead and at the line of his mouth, and Takeshi doesn’t think he could look away now even if he wanted to. Hayato’s still moving into him, still thrusting heat and pressure against him with each stroke, but he looks focused, now, his gaze narrowing like Takeshi’s face is all he can see, like he’s following directions laid into the shadow in Takeshi’s eyes. He takes a hard thrust, pressing as deep into Takeshi as he can get; then back halfway, and forward again, and all the tension in his face gives way at once, breaking into sudden relief as he shudders himself into orgasm. His gaze slides out of focus for a moment, his mouth drops into the soft shape of heat, and for a heartbeat Takeshi is breathless, caught between the insistent press of his own denied satisfaction and the bone-deep pleasure of watching Hayato come. He’s trembling with it, all his attention held by the waves of satisfaction cresting over Hayato’s expression, and then Hayato takes a breath and eases his hold, his hand dragging up over Takeshi while he’s still spilling heat into the other’s body. Takeshi jerks, an arm skidding sideways to smack against the handle of the faucet, but he doesn’t notice the ache of the bruised skin; he’s tensing instead, his body clenching tight on inevitability, and then Hayato’s thumb drags over the head of his cock and he’s coming, his whole awareness giving way to the rush of heat that surges through him. Hayato groans, wordless reaction to Takeshi clenching tight around him, but Takeshi is silent, his throat too tense on the heat in his veins to offer anything but lips parted on breathless pleasure as Hayato strokes him through his orgasm.

Takeshi’s glad for the counter when Hayato lets him go. It’s cool to the touch, feels good against his sweat-warmed skin, and it does a far better job of supporting him than his shaky legs do. Hayato keeps his feet, but from the lingering hold he sustains at the other’s hip, he’s not that much steadier than Takeshi is.

“Fuck,” Hayato says, sounding hot and shaky and languid in that way he always does right after sex. “We should do that again.”

“Mm,” Takeshi offers, testing nonverbal communication to see if he’s allowed to speak yet and to make sure his throat is willing to let him achieve something more coherent than the raw heat of breathless pleasure.

There’s a laugh over his shoulder. When Takeshi lifts his head Hayato is watching him in the reflection of the mirror, smiling without any trace of the tension that clung to his mouth when they started.

“You can talk if you want,” he suggests, and then he tugs at Takeshi’s hip to urge him off the counter and around. “Stand up.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says, bracing his hands against the counter so he can push himself back to more-or-less upright. His legs tremble at the effort of standing but he makes it to vertical, and then Hayato pushes at his hip and he turns obediently to lean at the counter and blink hazy attention at the other’s face. Hayato’s smiling still, the soft at his lips so easy Takeshi is sure he’s not thinking of his expression at all; his gaze skims Takeshi’s face, lingers at the tangle of his hair and traces out the shift of his eyelashes before coming back to rest on his lips. Hayato’s smile goes wider, his lashes dipping his eyes into unbearable softness; when he lifts a hand to press his thumb to the curve of Takeshi’s lip Takeshi’s breath catches in his chest like he’s forgotten how to exhale.

“You look good,” Hayato says, still staring at Takeshi’s mouth, at the pressure of his thumb against the other’s lip. He blinks, draws his attention up to Takeshi’s gaze; his eyes are very green, illuminated bright by the warm glow of the light over the mirror.

“You’re beautiful,” Takeshi tells him, offering an easy truth so he can feel the way Hayato’s thumb drags over his lip while he talks.

Hayato’s smile cracks into a laugh, the shape of it sparkling light into his eyes. “Be quiet,” he tells Takeshi, and then his hand slides away and he’s leaning in to replace the pressure of it with the soft of his mouth, and Takeshi shuts his eyes and smiles into the kiss.


	8. Intended

They don’t quite make it back to their room. Takeshi’s been distracted all day even though sightseeing was his idea; Hayato’s sure by the time they head back that the other’s put more time into watching him than admiring the various locations they set out to explore. They stand too close the whole way back, Takeshi shifting nearer with every minute they get closer to their hotel, and by the time they’re taking the stairs up to their floor he’s pressed so close Hayato can barely take a step without tripping on him.

“Get off me,” he tells him without any fire under the command as Takeshi crowds in against him at the top of the landing. There’s a touch at his hip, lips threatening against his forehead; Hayato is very sure if he lifts his chin they’ll end up making out right where they stand and never make it into the privacy of their room at all. “It’s only been a few hours, Takeshi, can’t you control yourself that long?”

“I have been,” Takeshi tells him as Hayato maneuvers them down the hallway and tries to locate his keys from the bottom of his pocket. “We’re almost back now, aren’t we?”

“We’re not there yet,” Hayato informs him. He finds the keys, hooks his fingers into the loop of the chain; fishing them out is easy, or would be, except that Takeshi’s got his hand sliding over Hayato’s hip and for a moment their hands catch and tangle on each other. Hayato’s motion stalls, his fingers curling of their own accord to catch at Takeshi’s, and Takeshi hums easy warmth and ducks in to finally land that hesitant kiss against Hayato’s tied-back hair. “Shit,” Hayato growls, dragging hard to free the keys from his pocket; Takeshi’s hand lets his go but lands right back at his waist, his fingers curling into the hem of Hayato’s t-shirt and pushing up in pursuit of the bare skin underneath. “At least let me get the door open.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi sighs against his forehead, with no indication that he’s listening at all. Hayato stares at the tangle of keys in his hand, trying to remember what he’s doing and why it matters more than Takeshi trailing a line of kisses down his hairline and around the back of his ear to linger over the weight of his earrings. There’s a catch of teeth, the tug of Takeshi sucking against one of the loops of metal, and Hayato’s eyelashes flutter, his throat going tight on an involuntary groan at the sensation. “I love you.”

“I know you do,” Hayato says to the darkness of his shut eyes, squeezing his fingers tight on the keys in an attempt to collect himself. When he reaches out it’s aimed at the door handle, but no sooner do his fingers land than Takeshi breathes against the side of his neck and what was intended as a move towards the room turns into a bracing hold to steady out the sudden tremor in his knees. “ _Fuck_ , wait until we’re inside.”

“I’m just kissing you,” Takeshi says, as if ‘just’ has any application to the way his hands are curving against Hayato’s hips or the way he’s rocking himself forward to press hard against the other’s body. “While you unlock the door.”

“I’m not unlocking anything like this,” Hayato says. His fingers are tense on the door handle, the lines of the keys in his other hand bruising against his palm; he’s trying to fumble his grip around to the one he needs but Takeshi’s fingertips have found out the bottom layer of his shirts and are pressing over bare skin, and Hayato is having some trouble breathing with the careful drag of Takeshi’s hand over his stomach. “Stop distracting me.”

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Takeshi insists, the words in direct opposition to the investigation he’s making of the back of Hayato’s neck and the way he’s fitting his lips to the shape of the other’s spine as if he needs a more direct connection to the involuntary tremors running through Hayato’s body. “Just kissing you since you wouldn’t let me before.”

“I wonder why,” Hayato deadpans, finally finding the key he wants from sheer exertion of will. Takeshi’s teeth catch his skin, skim delicate friction against the back of his neck, and he groans too-loud, feeling the heat in his veins turn to volume on his tongue. “Nothing about this is indecent at _all_.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi whimpers, and Hayato forces the key into the lock, barely settling it in place before twisting it with enough strength to snap the metal, were it the wrong one. But instead of the crack of the key giving way there’s the mechanical _click_ of the deadbolt shifting, the shift ofthe door latch coming open under the shove of Hayato’s hand, and then they’re toppling inside as the support of the door gives way to the swing of hinges. Hayato stumbles, his feet skidding from under him as he tries to balance himself, but Takeshi’s arm catches at his waist to save him from complete collapse before his adrenaline has more than a moment to respond to his panic. The door is open, they’re toppling into the room, and then Hayato wrenches the key free from the lock and shoves the weight of the door back into the frame. Takeshi’s on him before he can turn around, the weight of his body pinning Hayato against the support, and if his touch was indecent before it’s positively obscene now. His hand is sliding up Hayato’s chest, his fingertips mapping out the shape of the other’s body while Hayato is still trying to catch his breath, and when Hayato groans something unintelligible Takeshi whines against the back of his neck and lets his other hand come down to catch his thumb at the front of Hayato’s too-tight jeans.

“Christ,” Hayato growls, and plants his palm on the door so he can push himself around to face Takeshi. Takeshi’s hand slides, his touch landing against Hayato’s back instead of his chest, but he just sighs satisfaction and leans forward in pursuit of a kiss. Hayato gives one to him, and then another, and by the time he remembers what he was going to say Takeshi’s got his jeans half-undone and is fumbling with the zipper. “Can you really not handle a few hours without sex? I thought we’d outgrown this.”

“It’s not about the sex,” Takeshi says against Hayato’s mouth. He’s so close his lips catch against the other’s as he speaks.

“Really,” Hayato says as Takeshi drags his zipper down and reaches to push at the edge of his jeans; the denim is tight, clings too closely to be easily worked off, and Hayato catches the other side to offer enough force to convince the fabric to peel off his hips. “Could have fooled me.”

“It’s not,” Takeshi insists. Hayato’s jeans slide free of his hips and down to his thighs; Hayato has to pause there, has to reach up to catch his balance with a hand at Takeshi’s shoulder so he can lift one foot and unfasten the buckles on his boot. Takeshi doesn’t protest the delay; he’s sighing breathless appreciation instead, settling his fingers against Hayato’s bare skin and rocking in closer like he’s trying to press himself nearer even than the jeans clung. “It’s just you.”

“Just me.” Hayato drags his boot free of his foot, lets it fall to the floor along with the keys dropped in their initial rush through the door. The freedom lets him kick his ankle loose of the weight of his jeans, leaves him free to angle his knees wide enough to make space for Takeshi’s hips between them.

“Yeah.” Takeshi steps in closer, fits himself against the open invitation of Hayato’s legs; for a moment the tension against the front of his own pants catches against Hayato’s cock, dragging friction over him and sparking up his spine. Hayato groans, grabs for Takeshi’s belt loop to hold him closer, and Takeshi shudders and lets Hayato’s hip go so he can brace himself against the door. “I just want--” Hayato arches forward, presses hard against the other, and Takeshi’s speech cuts off into a whine for a moment, his eyelashes fluttering shut while his throat works on soundless heat. “ _Ah_.” The hand against Hayato’s back slides down and away, comes back to fit against his jaw; when Hayato looks up Takeshi is gazing at him with eyes gone dark and dreamy on heat. “You, Hayato.”

“You’re hopeless,” Hayato informs him, clinging to rough amusement in his voice even though he can feel himself flushing into self-consciousness, into embarrassment like he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager and facing down the too-bright smile of a hazel-eyed stranger with dark hair and an easy laugh. “You’re really trying to convince me you’re not going to get tired of this?”

Takeshi smiles, the soft one that always makes him look like he’s holding to some pleasant secret, like he’s waiting for some delightful surprise that is just about to happen. “I haven’t yet.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Hayato tells him, as if he’s not shivering in anticipation, as if it’s not primarily the hold he has around Takeshi’s shoulders keeping him upright. “Are we going to go through confessions all over again, or are you going to find the lube and fuck me?”

Takeshi laughs, ducks in for a rushed press of a kiss to the corner of Hayato’s mouth; then he pulls away, his hand sliding to sustain a single point of contact at the other’s neck as he turns and stretches for the table a few feet from the door. Hayato catches a breath, ignoring the way his skin shudders into chill with Takeshi pulling away; he’s watching the other’s motion instead, his attention wandering down the long line Takeshi is making with his outstretched arm and the flex of his shoulder to reach the bottle tipped over sideways on the surface. No sooner is it retrieved than Takeshi is coming back, leaning in to breathe warm at Hayato’s hair before he’s even got the lid open; Hayato huffs resignation, reaches to catch the bottle from Takeshi’s hands so he can open it himself.

“Idiot,” he says again, the word turning to endearment on his tongue. Takeshi smiles with it, sparkling himself into nearly-a-laugh around the catch of his breathing, and when Hayato twists the lid of the bottle open Takeshi lifts his hand in invitation for the liquid. It’s an easy movement for Hayato to spill a few drops over the other’s fingers, to let the slick shine coat Takeshi’s skin; Hayato can feel himself going hotter just with the familiar anticipation of it, can feel his cock flushing harder against his stomach even before Takeshi reaches to press his fingers between Hayato’s legs. “What would you do without me?”

“I wouldn’t,” Takeshi says, as easily as his touch is sliding over Hayato’s skin. “I wouldn’t do without you.” Pressure, a finger urging Hayato open; Hayato relaxes to the force, huffs an exhale at the familiar sensation as Takeshi slides into him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hayato tells him, letting the recapped bottle drop to join the keys and his boot on the floor. His legs are shaking harder, now, as Takeshi eases into him; he braces on one foot, shifts to hook the other up around Takeshi’s hip to hold them together. Takeshi leans forward, presses his forehead to the door over Hayato’s shoulder; when he moves his hand again it’s with intention, with the beginnings of a rhythm forming in the shift of his arm. “What if you had never met me?”

“I did,” Takeshi tells him. His mouth is very close to Hayato’s ear; the words come warm against the weight of Hayato’s earrings. “I would have someday.”

“You’re such a romantic,” Hayato says, but his fingers are sliding up into Takeshi’s hair, tugging the other in closer as Takeshi works him open, stroking slow and easy into him. “I’m the only one for you, is that it?”

Takeshi’s laugh is very soft, more a huff of air than true sound. “Mm.” He draws his finger back, tries a second; Hayato can feel the strain of it, can feel the effort of the movement, but when he lets out a breath Takeshi’s touch slides back into him to stretch him wider without even the threat of pain. “I think you are.”

“You’re absurd,” Hayato tells him, turning his head so he can press his smile against Takeshi’s cheek. Takeshi catches an inhale, tips his head up to meet Hayato’s; for a moment Hayato’s mouth is pressing to the corner of Takeshi’s, a glancing kiss forming from the contact. “I love you so much.”

Takeshi’s lips curve into a grin, into a spill of laughter against Hayato’s mouth. “I know,” he says, warm and delighted and glowing, and then he slides his fingers free and Hayato reaches for his jeans before Takeshi has a chance to make the attempt. Buttons slide free, metal gives way to the press of Hayato’s fingers, and Takeshi reaches to brace himself at Hayato’s hip just as Hayato gets his hand past the barrier of Takeshi’s clothing to curl his fingers around the other’s length. Takeshi’s hot to the touch, the head of his cock slick when Hayato presses his thumb to it, and he whimpers when Hayato touches him, his hips coming forward in reflexive response before Hayato has even said anything. There’s a moment of coordination, Takeshi tugging at Hayato’s hip to pull him closer, Hayato drawing the heat of Takeshi’s cock into place between his thighs; and then heat, slick pressure electrifying Hayato’s blood, and Takeshi rocks forward and up and slides into him all at once.

“ _God_ ,” Hayato groans, and “Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, and then he leans forward to press his forehead to Hayato’s shoulder as he starts to move, fitting the rhythm of his body to the same pattern he found with his fingers. Hayato’s leaning hard against the door, each of Takeshi’s strokes rocking him back against the support as the other slides into him; he can feel his balance wavering, can feel the effort of keeping himself upright straining through his legs, but he doesn’t shift his weight. Better to turn his head in to breathe against Takeshi’s hair, to let his inhales fall deep and rough on heat as he slides his hand down between the press of their bodies towards the straining heat of his cock. Takeshi’s the one who whimpers as Hayato closes his fingers on himself, gasping reaction as if Hayato’s hold is sliding up over the shape of Takeshi’s cock instead of his own; it makes Hayato huff a laugh, makes him duck his chin to press his nose against the soft of Takeshi’s hair, just above his ear.

“You’re an idiot,” he tells him, whispering the words into the color of affection, dipping his voice low and weighted with heat as Takeshi thrusts into him. Takeshi’s hand at his hip tightens in unspoken response to Hayato’s voice, and Hayato fists his fingers into Takeshi’s hair and digs his heel in hard against the other’s back as he speeds the motion of his hold over himself. “And a romantic, and a sap, and I love you so fucking much I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Takeshi stutters a breath against Hayato’s shoulder, his inhale catching like Hayato’s pulling it on a lead, and Hayato pushes at Takeshi’s head and presses his lips against the curve of Takeshi’s ear. “Come for me, Takeshi.” Takeshi jerks, gasps a startled inhale; and then he does, whimpering himself into orgasm as the rhythm of his strokes trips into stillness. His breath is hot at Hayato’s neck, the sound of his inhales whining breathless in his throat, and Hayato tips his head back, and shuts his eyes, and presses his thumb in hard against himself. He can feel Takeshi shaking against him, can feel the other quivering with aftershocks of pleasure, and then he twists his hand just right and he’s arching off the door, his head pressing back against the support as his cock twitches in his hand and spills hot over his fingers. Takeshi shudders again, gasps the shape of Hayato’s name, and Hayato finds the air to groan heat past his lips as the world goes warm and white with satisfaction. The ache in his legs fades, the strain at his shoulders is forgotten; there’s just warmth in his veins and haze over his vision and Takeshi, breathless and heavy against him.

Hayato waits to speak until he can see again, until the white across his vision has given way to the relative mundanity of the ceiling overhead. Then: “Takeshi,” a statement instead of a question.

Takeshi presses closer against his shoulder. “Mm?”

Hayato eases his hold on Takeshi’s hair, lets his fingers slide down into a caress against the back of the other’s neck; he can feel Takeshi tremble with the contact, can feel the way the other’s fingers tighten against his hips. When he takes a breath the air is warm in his lungs. “I’m glad I met you.”

Takeshi’s laugh is bright, glowing from the inside out like it was in the mouth of the middle schooler he used to be, when all Hayato had of him was the color of his eyes and the curve of his mouth to fuel frustrated imagination. Now, with Takeshi’s ring heavy on his finger and Takeshi’s skin warm against his, it’s hard for Hayato to even recall a time when he didn’t have them.

His smile comes easy against the soft of Takeshi’s hair.


	9. Nonverbal

The shower in their hotel room is enormous. It’s the biggest one Takeshi has ever seen, aside from the industrial rows of showerheads that he remembers from generic locker rooms for the baseball he played in high school. But those were intended for dozens of people at once, if needed, and given the single bed in their suite this one couldn’t possibly be used for more than two during any occupants’ stay. There’s a bench along the back edge of the heat-steamed glass, three separate options for style and angle of the showerhead, and enough room for Takeshi to spread his arms out without touching either side of the space. There’s more than enough room for both he and Hayato, even for them both to be under the spray at the same time; if they tried they could take their morning shower at the same time without ever touching.

It’s a good thing, Takeshi reflects, that neither of them is so much as considering the attempt.

In actual fact, neither of them is particularly concerned with the mundanities of washing just at the moment. Takeshi knows Hayato will end up washing his hair, at the very least, and probably use the citrus-and-mint-scented soap that always makes him smell deliciously cool and crisp for hours afterward, but right now they’re both standing directly under the spray of the topmost showerhead, letting the water slide into luxury instead of purpose over their skin as Takeshi kisses water off the side of Hayato’s neck. It’s a little like standing in the middle of a downpour, the water warmer even than the humid weight of a summertime rain, except that the droplets are hitting Takeshi’s shoulders directly rather than soaking through the barrier of a t-shirt over his skin. Hayato whines as Takeshi’s mouth touches him, something low and incoherent in the back of his throat, but it’s encouragement more than protest; when Takeshi kisses down to his shoulder Hayato turns his head sideways to surrender to the slide of the other’s mouth. His skin is warmer than the water, glowing with the heat of sleep that always clings to him for several minutes after waking. When he shifts it’s to reach behind himself, to slide his fingers down against the curve of Takeshi’s hip and close his hand into a bracing hold. Takeshi groans, the sound softened against the cover of Hayato’s shoulder but still echoingly loud against the enclosed walls of the shower; his hands slide from the path they’re been tracing over Hayato’s back and down to his hips, fitting his fingers into an imitation of the bruising-tight hold Hayato has on his damp skin.

Hayato’s head goes back, the wet weight of his hair pressing to Takeshi’s shoulder. When he blinks through the spray of the shower at Takeshi his lashes catch heavy on the moisture, shadow the bright of his eyes into a smouldering dark instead. His lips are parted to the heat in the air, his chest working harder for oxygen on the weight of humidity; he looks like he’s thinking about saying something, like he’s trying to string words together in the back of his head, but Takeshi doesn’t give him a chance to form coherency from the haze in his eyes. It’s too impossible to resist the temptation of his mouth and the wet curve of his lips; easier to give in to the urge, to duck through the barrier of water and fit his mouth into the shape of a kiss. Hayato’s lips are soft against Takeshi’s, absent the tension of a frown or even the friction of a smile; there’s just heat against the other’s mouth, the easy give of Hayato’s lips to Takeshi’s like they were meant to fit together. The fingers at Takeshi’s hip dig harder to tug him forward; Takeshi has to take a half step to catch his balance, his body running up hard against Hayato’s, and Hayato growls low and purring and rocks himself back against the resistance of Takeshi’s cock at his back. The water strips away the friction of skin-on-skin, turns what would be a drag of motion into a slick slide of Hayato’s body against Takeshi’s, but the suggestion is still clear, the implied invitation still made explicit.

Takeshi takes a breath. It’s hard to do, with their surroundings as much liquid as they are air; the weight of heat in the air makes his head spin, the steam fogs his vision past the point of clarity. He slides his hands down, braces his fingers wide against Hayato’s hips until they’re steady against the slick of the water, his hold gentle enough to leave pale skin unmarked by the prints of his fingers; when he tugs Hayato leans back immediately to rock himself against the resistance of Takeshi’s hips, and Takeshi leans in over him as he presses them together. For a minute there’s just the slide of the water over them, just the catch of Takeshi’s cock pressing against Hayato’s skin; then he shifts his angle, and Hayato rocks his weight onto his toes, and Takeshi slides between the tremble of Hayato’s thighs to press hot against soft skin. Hayato makes a sound, something warm and wet and dark, and Takeshi ducks his head, returns his mouth to the tremble of Hayato’s shoulder while he lets one of his hands go to reach for the other’s length instead. Hayato arches at the first touch, tipping his weight back against Takeshi’s chest; the angle pulls the shadows away from his body, offers up the pale of his skin for the illumination of the light overhead. Takeshi can see down the curve of his chest, can look past the trembling flat of his stomach to the flush of his cock, to the fit of Takeshi’s fingers sliding into a grip around it; it makes him groan, brings his hips rocking involuntarily forward, and Hayato sighs liquid satisfaction and tenses his legs tighter around the weight of Takeshi’s cock between them.

Takeshi doesn’t say anything. The splash of the water over them is enough to offer a backdrop of white noise, and from the audible effort Hayato is taking with each breath he doesn’t need the distraction of speech right now anyway. Takeshi watches the movement of his hand instead, fits the slow drag of his fingers over Hayato to the deliberate tilt of his hips as he slides between the other’s thighs, watches the heat of arousal flush Hayato’s cock darker and harder under his touch. Hayato’s leaning hard against him, his head turned up to the light; when Takeshi lifts his head to look Hayato’s eyes are closed, his mouth unthinkingly soft as he gasps air from the humidity around them. Takeshi can see Hayato’s forehead crease with each stroke of Takeshi’s hand, can see the shudder of sensation ripple across his features; he looks angelic with the light catching bright off his lashes and the line of his cheekbones, the usual tension in his expression washed as clean by rising pleasure as his skin is washed by the water. Takeshi can feel his body going hotter than the water can account for, his cock twitching harder between Hayato’s thighs, but he doesn’t speed his movement; he keeps his pace where it is, slow and steady and even, until the forward thrust of his hips and the slide of his hand feel like a dance, like some deliberately studied thing instead of a race in pursuit of the goal of satisfaction.

Takeshi doesn’t know how long they stay like that. The air is getting heavier with each passing minute, the steam of the water spilling over the walls of the shower to fill the rest of the bathroom, but he’s not looking at the damp collecting on the countertop, isn’t watching the clarity of the mirror go hazy-white with condensation. He’s still watching Hayato, tracking the pace of the other’s breathing, seeing the way his shoulders are starting to tense with each inhale he takes. The fingers at Takeshi’s hip are painful, now, the pressure a point of hurt against the rising tide of pleasure in him, but it’s too minor to be a true distraction when weighed against the curve of Hayato’s spine and the impossible heat of his cock in Takeshi’s hand. Hayato’s thighs are trembling, his legs straining towards oncoming relief; Takeshi wants to soothe him to calm, wants to take the effort from him, but he doesn’t want to stop, and in the end all he can manage is to slide his hand from Hayato’s hip around the shudder in his stomach, wrapping his arm around the other’s waist to hold him steady against the heat staining his cheeks to a dark flush. Hayato groans at the touch, buck his hips forward in pursuit of more, and Takeshi leans in to kiss him, to catch his lips to the corner of Hayato’s mouth as the other’s throat strains, as his mouth comes open on a gasp of air. Hayato’s tense against Takeshi’s support, his entire body curving into a smooth line of anticipation; and Takeshi strokes up, and presses forward, and Hayato breaks against him, closing his hand hard at Takeshi’s bracing arm as he moans and shudders himself into pleasure. Takeshi can feel each wave of sensation crest in Hayato, can feel the ripples of tension run through the other even if the water is washing away any evidence of it, and when Takeshi takes a breath it’s pure heat, steam filling his lungs with a radiant glow. He ducks his head to Hayato’s shoulder, shuts his eyes to the blinding white of the haze in the air, and lets his weight rock forward to slide the heat of his cock against the tremor of Hayato’s thighs. There’s a catch of water-smoothed friction, heat and motion together to urge him towards the edge, and then Takeshi takes a breath and his orgasm hits him in a rush, spilling over him like a waterfall. He can hear Hayato’s shaky breathing at his ear, can feel the press of Hayato’s fingers in his skin, and it’s all Hayato, warm against him and shaking around him and drawing each pulse of pleasure through him like it’s the first one all over again.

It takes a long time for the tremors to fade. Hayato doesn’t let his hold on Takeshi’s wrist go; after some time Takeshi realizes his fingers are still curled around Hayato’s softening cock, and he finally thinks to ease his hold away so he can reach for the other’s hip instead. His fingers land, skim over wet skin, and Hayato shudders an exhale and twists all at once, turning in Takeshi’s hold to face him. Takeshi blinks, still too unsteady to easily process the movement, and Hayato reaches up for him to settle his fingers into the wet-heavy drag of Takeshi’s hair against the back of his head. He doesn’t say anything when he pulls to urge Takeshi closer, but Takeshi doesn’t need words to understand the invitation.

Hayato’s mouth is soft against his.


	10. Nostalgic

Hayato likes to look at Takeshi.

This isn’t something he’ll ever admit out loud, even when he knows he’s been caught staring enough times that even Takeshi could put words to the appreciation Hayato holds unstated at the back of his mouth. It’s easier to leave it assumed than to frame the whole scope of his feelings into the growl of coherency, than to try to find a way to force not-too-embarrassing words around the heat that runs through him at the angle of the other’s shoulders or the flex of his legs. It’s enough at times like that to grab for Takeshi’s hand, to dig his fingertips into the other’s hold past the point of pain, like Hayato’s trying to push the ache in his chest into Takeshi’s body directly without having to let it languish in the air between Hayato’s lips and Takeshi’s ears. And usually that’s enough to ease the strain, to take the tug of sweet-bright hurt around Hayato’s heart to something gentle enough that he can go back to not thinking about it, can carry it with him again without acknowledging its presence.

But sometimes it takes a little more.

“This is fun,” Takeshi volunteers from where he’s lying on the bed, his head tipped up to watch Hayato work knots into the ties sacrificed to the pursuit of binding the other’s wrists to the bed. Hayato doesn’t feel too bad about this; they’re Takeshi’s ties and have likely seen far worse abuse, and besides, it’s a more than worthy cause. “Are you going to do that kissing thing again?”

“Be quiet,” Hayato tells him, except that the rough edge of irritation melts on the heat in his veins and turns into something soft and affectionate to match the gentle glide of his fingers as he slides them down against the line of Takeshi’s arm. “It’s not about talking.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says, capitulation won so easily it doesn’t even carry the weight of a surrender, and falls quiet, only offering the bright of his gaze as a distraction to Hayato. It’s enough on its own, even decoupled from the weight of laughter that always seems to press just under Takeshi’s tongue; with his mouth rendered silent his gaze gains weight, sticks to all Hayato’s movements until Hayato is more aware of his own bare skin than he is of the smooth tan of Takeshi’s. He can feel himself flushing, self-consciousness making itself known in the color it leaves across his too-pale cheeks, but his hands stay steady, and in the end he gets the knots where he wants them, neat curves and folds of dark silk laid over the easy fall of Takeshi’s wrists against the head of the bed. It’s only then that he lets himself look down, and even then it’s a slow process, a matter of tracking the arch of Takeshi’s arm down from the angle of his wrist, along the line of his forearm, past the dip in his elbow and to the faint strain Hayato can see at his shoulder. There’s a mark there, a line of darker skin showing up clear against the gold, but Hayato skips over it for now, lets his gaze slide instead over the dip of collarbone and the shift of Takeshi’s throat as he swallows before coming up over the part of his lips to finally meet his eyes.

Takeshi has beautiful eyes. Hayato has always thought so, even when he was too young to find the knowledge anything but a burden, a constant awareness he did more to run from than to acknowledge. It’s easier to look at them now, without the effort of denial running bitter in his veins; now he can let himself look at the shift of Takeshi’s lashes, can let himself see how charcoal-dark they look around the clear bright of his eyes, can even meet the wide-eyed stare Takeshi is giving him, the one that makes him look younger than he is until Hayato can see the outline of the boy he first met under the shape of maturity in Takeshi’s face. It makes his heart ache, creases the sharp almost-pain of too much affection at his forehead, and Hayato has to look away, has to follow the line of Takeshi’s nose down to the soft of his mouth and the breathless part of his lips. Takeshi’s breathing harder already, with nothing but Hayato’s knots at his wrists and Hayato’s gaze on his skin, but Hayato expected that; Takeshi’s never been subtle about the effect Hayato has on him even when the other isn’t making an active effort. Takeshi’s watching his movements, too, anticipating enough that when Hayato leans in Takeshi turns his head to meet him, presses his shoulders into the bed so he can arch in closer; Hayato has to catch his chin to hold him still, to keep him from the kiss he’s clearly expecting.

“Lie still,” he says, near enough that Takeshi must be able to feel the heat of his breathing on the words, and then he ducks close, dodging the temptation of Takeshi’s lips to fit his mouth to the dark scar against the other’s chin instead. Takeshi sighs at the contact, all the strain in his body draining out of him at once, and Hayato shuts his eyes for a moment, long enough to focus on the texture against his lips, long enough to pick out the edges of the healed-over injury under his mouth. The scar is just as warm as the rest of Takeshi’s skin, radiant with heat that Hayato can feel soaking into his lips and over his tongue, until when he breathes he can feel the warmth of it pressing against the inside of his chest, unfolding the ache around his heart into something softer and easier to bear.

“Hayato--” Takeshi says, the movement of his mouth shifting under Hayato’s lips.

“Quiet,” Hayato purrs, and lifts his head to suit actions to words and stop Takeshi’s speech with the press of a kiss. Takeshi sighs satisfaction against the motion, opens his mouth into reflexive invitation, but Hayato doesn’t linger as long as he might; he presses his thumb to the warmth of Takeshi’s scar, holds him still while he pulls away, and slides farther down the bed while Takeshi is still breathing himself back from the haze of heat knocking his vision out of focus.

His shoulder comes next. This is a familiar injury, years older than the smaller one at his chin; Hayato remembers the way the bandages wrapping this one would strain when Takeshi dropped an arm around his shoulders in the school hallway, can recall the slow process of the stiffness of pain giving way to Takeshi’s more usual casual grace. He can remember the cause, too, the swing of a bright sword on a television screen too far away for him to help, can recall the burst of bright blood that shocked all his younger self’s breathing to ice for a moment, but he pushes the thought aside. It’s unpleasant to recall, even with the living heat of Takeshi under him now as proof against his fears of the moment, painful even to think of the raw burst of sound in his throat as he screamed Takeshi’s name as if his voice could carry into the closed-off arena for the Ring Battle. It’s enough to have the healed injury under his lips now, to press a line of kisses along the jagged edges of it for all the times he growled his way out of affection back then, to feel the thud of Takeshi’s heart speeding in time with the press of his mouth.

Takeshi’s going hard under the weight of the sheets tangled over his hips. Hayato doesn’t need to look down to know it; he can tell from how loud Takeshi’s breathing is coming in his chest, can feel it in the way the other is trembling faintly with each press of his lips. But he’s not ready to move down farther, not yet, so when Takeshi angles his knees wider in invitation Hayato settles himself over the sheets, lets the weight of his hips pin the thin layer of fabric between their bodies instead of granting either of them the satisfaction of skin-on-skin. Takeshi’s body is a tapestry in front of him, the years of their history written over his skin in dark-healed injuries, and Hayato isn’t done indulging in nostalgia as yet.

Next is a deeper hurt, a starburst of a scar just over Takeshi’s right hip. This one is more recent, a little later than the familiar line across the other’s chin; Hayato remembers the sound of a gunshot, with this one, can recall the way his heart stopped when it was Takeshi’s voice that hissed sudden pain. It wasn’t that serious, Shamal told him after, while Takeshi was in the hospital being treated by doctors less stubbornly perverted than Shamal himself; there was nothing to worry about, since they made it to the hospital so soon after the injury. But Hayato’s sleeves were stained red with blood he couldn’t wash off with soap and water, and it was only the press of his palms against each other that kept them from shaking visibly. He didn’t take in most of what Shamal was saying, and believed it less; it wasn’t until he was allowed back into the hospital room to see Takeshi’s smile -- hazy with anesthetic but no less bright for that -- that the tension that had gripped him eased its hold. It was worth it, in the end, Hayato thinks; the flare of the scar at Takeshi’s hip is a reminder now of the proposal Hayato framed two days later, parsing words to make an offering of the future while Takeshi’s grip on his hand wound tighter and tighter with each syllable he managed. He had known what the answer would be before he started speaking -- Takeshi has, after all, never been subtle when it comes to him -- but by the end he was breathless with panic, as certain of rejection as he had initially been of acceptance. Now the pattern of the scar against his lips just feels warm, healed over into almost-smoothness that reminds Hayato as much of the weight of the engagement ring settling onto his finger as it does of the first moment of terror at possible loss.

It’s only then that he moves up, across the shudder of breathless heat in Takeshi’s lungs and over the longest and the worst of his scars, the deep, vicious one that runs diagonally across the span of his chest. This one’s the hardest to face, as it always has been; Hayato can feel his heart seize at the memory of horror in his years-younger self, can recall the cold certainty of impending loss that shook him so badly he couldn’t steady his voice even for the Tenth’s sake. It was a shocking realization, to face down a loss so enormous he couldn’t remember how to breathe for the weight of impending grief, could barely carry on existing even with the fire of agony-turned-rage to fuel his actions. But this memory of hurt, too, is coupled with the relief of seeing Takeshi again, the heart-stopping impossibility of him standing whole and bright and alive for Hayato’s consideration, and when Hayato presses his mouth against the scar across Takeshi’s chest it’s the aftereffect he recalls, the breathless crush of his mouth against Takeshi’s soft smile and the way Takeshi arched and shuddered under him when Hayato pulled enough of his clothing free to first see the healed line of the scar running over his body. That memory is still fresh, soft with affection but no less bright for the years that have passed since, and when Hayato’s mouth touches Takeshi’s skin Takeshi goes breathless just the same as he did then, his spine curving to press closer to Hayato’s mouth as if to encourage him to more. It makes Hayato smile, makes him fit the shape of his affection into the spaces between Takeshi’s ribs, and then he slides down, overwriting the remembered fear that clings to Takeshi’s scars with the press of his mouth, with the slide of his lips, with another year’s worth of warm recollections to overwhelm the dark ones.

Hayato doesn’t know if Takeshi knows why he does this, as he sometimes does. He hasn’t said in so many words, and Takeshi’s never asked; but then again, Takeshi understands more than he lets on, has always understood Hayato even when Hayato didn’t want to understand himself, and it wouldn’t be surprising to find out he knows why Hayato fits kisses against the curves and angles of the scars in his skin, why Hayato always ties his hands back so Takeshi can’t distract him with the drag of his fingers in the middle of the process. Because it is a process, a trek backwards over time and memory in their disjoint components, and it’s not until Hayato has fit his mouth to the bottom edge of that last scar that he finally lets himself reach for the edge of the sheet and slide it down and away from Takeshi’s hips. Takeshi’s knees are spread wide, his cock flushed hard and expectant against his stomach, and Hayato doesn’t look up to see the way Takeshi is gazing at him, doesn’t turn to see the way he knows Takeshi will be straining to push himself higher on the bed. It’s enough to duck his head, to listen to the sound Takeshi whimpers as Hayato breathes out over him; Hayato smiles, soft and warm and aching with all that unsaid affection, and then he opens his mouth and slides his lips down over the head of Takeshi’s cock. Takeshi jolts with the friction, heat thrumming all through him to knock him shaky and boneless against the mattress, but Hayato doesn’t look up to see the line of his throat as his head goes back, to see the sudden slack fall of his wrists in the gentle restraints. He shuts his eyes instead, braces his weight on one hand, and as he takes Takeshi farther back into his mouth he reaches down, finally, for himself, to close his hand into a careful grip around the ache of arousal in his cock. The friction makes him groan, the sound catching hot against Takeshi’s skin, and Takeshi’s hips come up involuntarily, lifting off the sheets by an inch to thrust himself back over Hayato’s tongue. Hayato shifts his bracing arm, ducks closer to Takeshi’s hips, and when he moves again Takeshi falls to the bed, trembling heat as he surrenders the pace to Hayato’s movements.

It’s a strangely meditative experience. Hayato is used to Takeshi’s hands in his hair, Takeshi’s shoulders curling up over his bowed head like he’s trying to press as close as he can get; to have the admittedly pleasant distraction of both removed leaves him free to set his own rhythm, to find a speed that presses heat over his tongue and uncurls it low in his stomach at the same time, as if the drag of Takeshi’s cock pressing over his mouth is directly tied to the pull of his palm against his own length. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, as loud as the sound of Takeshi breathing at the other end of the bed; Hayato can taste salt on his tongue, can breathe in and catch the faint citrus scent of their hotel soap clinging to the warm of Takeshi’s skin. He smells sweet, like oranges and the clean smell of fresh rain that always seems to linger around him, and Hayato can feel the way he’s shaking, the open line of his thighs offering a perfect tell for the adrenaline thrumming in his veins. Hayato tightens his grip on himself, strokes a little harder; the sensation tenses against the drag of his lips, catches a moan unthinking at the back of his throat, and Takeshi arches against the bed, his inhale catching into a whine at the back of his throat. Hayato presses his tongue in harder, licks sensation just under the head of Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi quakes and gasps and comes into Hayato’s mouth, quivering himself over the edge and into panting pleasure as he goes. Hayato swallows once, twice, keeps his mouth pressed close, and Takeshi’s tremors are surging through his own veins, turning him electric with tension. His legs are straining, his hand dragging frantic-fast over himself, and then Takeshi says “ _Hayato_ ,” warm and tender and shocked like he always sounds right after he comes, and Hayato chokes and groans and spills hot across his fingers with the taste of bitter salt clinging to the back of his tongue. The sound in his throat catches at Takeshi’s skin, wins another shudder of reaction over the sheets, and then Hayato manages to pull away to gasp the last of his orgasm against Takeshi’s hip. His thoughts have faded to white, his breathing has turned to gasps, and the knot in his chest has eased, undone itself into heat enough to fill all his veins and leave him glowing sun-bright between Takeshi’s knees.

Takeshi’s smiling when Hayato makes his way back up over the bed to brace himself over the other’s shoulder. His eyes are dreamy, his mouth soft; he looks like satisfaction itself, his every blink languid and heavy with contentment.

“Hayato,” he says, aiming the words at Hayato’s mouth as he turns his chin up in a bid for a kiss. “Are you going to untie me now?”

“I was,” Hayato tells him. “Maybe not for a while longer, now.” Takeshi’s smile is sudden, falling into the startled bright of a laugh, and Hayato grins at him and leans down to kiss him before he turns his attention to unfastening the knots at the other’s wrists.

The weight in his chest feels like comfort, now.


	11. Attentive

“This isn’t even _close_ to fair,” Hayato grumbles from where he’s lying on his stomach over the bed, looking back over his shoulder at Takeshi tipping against his side. “ _You’re_ the one who picked this movie out in the first place.”

“I know,” Takeshi admits, pressing his face against the back of Hayato’s neck so he can breathe in against the bright of his hair. “It’s a good movie.”

“You haven’t seen more than ten minutes of it,” Hayato accuses, which isn’t an unjustified claim. He shudders as Takeshi slides a hand along the slope of his back, over the curve of his waist and down to the loose hem of his undershirt. “We should have put on what I wanted.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums. His fingers are under Hayato’s shirt, sliding across the bare skin of his hip and the curve of his spine; Hayato ducks his head, his hair falling into a curtain around his face, and Takeshi smiles and wiggles backwards over the bed to put himself more on level with Hayato’s shoulders. “But then you would have wanted to watch it.”

“Obviously,” Hayato growls. Takeshi pushes his shirt up higher, slides down farther; Hayato shifts when Takeshi’s lips press against the dip of his spine, lets an exhale go with a little more force than is necessary. “When I said we should put on a movie, I didn’t mean it euphemistically.” Takeshi hums wordlessly at Hayato’s skin, drags his fingers down in the other direction; this time he catches under the elastic of Hayato’s briefs to fit the press of his palm against the sharp edge of the other’s hip. Hayato groans something probably intended as protest that just sounds like heat to Takeshi’s ears. “If I had _wanted_ to be distracted I would have said so.”

Takeshi laughs against Hayato’s skin, the sound of disbelief without the words to give the other enough reason to respond. “Sure,” he says instead, skeptical but warm enough that Hayato will let it go, and hooks his thumb over the top edge of Hayato’s briefs to urge the cling of the fabric down the other’s thighs. “You don’t mind too much, though, do you?”

“Of course I mind,” Hayato says, rocking his weight up onto his knees for a minute so Takeshi can work his clothing free of his hips. “That’s why I’m telling you I mind.”

“Sorry,” Takeshi soothes. He slides farther back on the bed, rocks up over his knees so he can get a better angle to peel Hayato’s clothing off; Hayato himself offers no protest, and in fact is sliding his knees wider as soon as his feet are free, making the pale line of his thighs an invitation to Takeshi’s gaze as much to as his touch. “Can I keep going now that we’ve started, though?”

“That depends,” Hayato grumbles. Takeshi reaches out to fit his hands around the soft inside of Hayato’s knees, to feel the warm flush of the other’s skin against his palms before he slides his touch up, his thumbs dragging gentle over the shadowed inside line of Hayato’s thighs. Hayato’s hips rock forward for a moment, reflex winning out over put-upon irritation; it makes Takeshi smile, brings his focus back up to the hunch of Hayato’s shoulders as he braces himself over his elbows. “Would you stop if I told you to?”

“Of course I would,” Takeshi says. He brings his hands up higher, lets his thumbs glide all the way up Hayato’s legs to ghost a touch just behind his balls; Hayato shudders, his legs flexing involuntarily against the sheets, and Takeshi smiles and lets his hands go wider and close against Hayato’s hips. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Idiot,” Hayato sighs, affecting a passable impression of sincere irritation. Takeshi tugs at his hips, urging the other up off the sheets, and Hayato rocks backwards, takes his weight over his knees as he straightens his arms to brace at his hands. “You’ve already missed too much of the plot, you’ll never catch back up now.”

“So I can keep going?” Takeshi asks, just for the extra heat of confirmation. Hayato’s knees are wide apart; when Takeshi settles over the other’s ankles he spreads his even wider so he can bracket Hayato’s calves with the heat of his own thighs.

“Fuck,” Hayato growls, and rocks his weight back towards Takeshi, his legs flexing with the effort of the movement. “You had better not _stop_.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says, easy agreement to what he wanted anyway, and pushes Hayato back forward as he leans in closer. “I won’t.”

“At least you’ll follow _some_ instruction,” Hayato says, and Takeshi laughs against his skin, exhaling over the back of Hayato’s thighs so the other tenses and shivers with the heat. It’s while he’s still shaking that Takeshi presses closer, taking advantage of the other’s moment of distraction to press his lips to Hayato’s entrance. Hayato jolts at the contact, all the air leaving his lungs in an audible groan, and Takeshi takes it as the encouragement it is and opens his mouth to drag his tongue against Hayato instead. Hayato huffs air, his legs tensing responsiveness, and Takeshi lets his hold on the other’s hips go to slide his fingertips down over the tremor of Hayato’s thighs. Hayato’s hot to the touch, the muscles in his legs trembling with each slide of Takeshi’s tongue; Takeshi lets his hands wander, trails over the shiver in Hayato’s body with present-moment appreciation rather than any attempt at memorizing or mapping the reaction. He’s focused instead on what his mouth is doing, on the drag of his tongue and the heat of Hayato alternately tensing and relaxing against the friction of his movement. He can hear Hayato’s breathing, can make out the audible catch of response every time Takeshi shifts his angle, and then he presses closer and slides his tongue just inside the other and Hayato moans, a faint sound as much surrender as it is heat.

“ _God_ ,” he chokes off, and his hips rock backwards, the motion an involuntary plea for more. “ _Takeshi_.”

Takeshi doesn’t answer coherently. He hums instead, lets the sound vibrate against sensitive skin, and Hayato shudders again, his whole body tensing as if with electricity as Takeshi slides farther into him, a slow, wet stroke that pulls another whine of reaction from Hayato’s throat. He’s fisting at the sheets, Takeshi doesn’t need to see to know, and his legs are tensing, his weight straining back against the force of Takeshi’s mouth. The movie’s still playing, the music from the soundtrack a low hum of white noise to Takeshi’s hearing, but he’s very sure neither of them are paying any attention to the fictional drama unfolding on the television screen.

“Fuck,” Hayato manages, his voice dropping into the low, grating edge of heat it sometimes takes on when he’s sufficiently distracted by what Takeshi’s doing. “Yeah, fuck, just--” Takeshi catches his teeth against the edge of Hayato’s entrance, a delicate drag of friction more than any real pressure, and Hayato tenses around him, quivering at the sensation as his breathing rushes into a gasp. “ _Fuck_ , Takeshi.”

Takeshi pulls back for a moment, gulps air to supply his dizzy thoughts with enough oxygen to stay focused. Hayato growls at the loss, tips himself back in unspoken demand for more, and Takeshi hums patience, brings a hand to his mouth so he can suck wet over his thumb.

“Just a minute,” he soothes, touching the spit-slick of his thumb against Hayato and pressing until he’s easing inside, just enough to give Hayato something to clench down on. He doesn’t thrust -- the minimal lubrication isn’t enough to allow for much friction without tipping over into pain -- but Hayato groans something that sounds like satisfaction instead of protest and doesn’t voice any other complaint as Takeshi stretches sideways for the bottle on the bedside table. Hayato’s head is bowed, Takeshi can see as he straightens with the bottle in hand; his hair is falling over his face, casting his features into shadow, but Takeshi can hear how fast his breathing is coming, can see how hard Hayato’s gone against the taut shiver in his stomach.

“Here,” he says, comfort and promise at once, and thumbs the lid of the bottle open one-handed. The liquid is cool when he spills it across Hayato’s skin; he can see the way it makes the other shiver, can feel the jolt of reflexive response that runs through him and tenses him against Takeshi’s touch. Takeshi shifts his hand, catches the liquid against the span between his index finger and thumb, and when he draws gently back and out of Hayato’s body it slides across his knuckle, coating his thumb with cool liquid even before he’s dragging his touch across Hayato’s entrance again. The second thrust is easier than the first, a slick drive of motion as he presses his thumb into the other, and Hayato groans relief at it, his back arching into appreciation as his hips rock back to meet Takeshi’s touch. Takeshi spills another few drops of lube across Hayato’s skin, recaps the bottle and drops it forgotten to the bed before pressing his other hand against the spill to coat them into slippery cool. Hayato’s shuddering, now, his whole body tensing with each thrust of Takeshi’s thumb; Takeshi shifts his hand, pivots his wrist around the point of connection, and when he pushes in the next time he slides his fingers down between Hayato’s thighs, reaches out to catch the weight of the other’s balls with the gentle friction of his fingers while he keeps working him open around the press of his thumb. Hayato hisses reaction, his body drawing tight around Takeshi’s touch, and Takeshi leans in closer, ducks his head to press a kiss into the curve of Hayato’s spine, to hum heat over his skin as he rocks his hand into Hayato’s body.

“God,” Hayato says again, his voice open and unstudied with the heat in his throat. He tips back, pushing against Takeshi for more; Takeshi curls his fingers into a tighter hold, presses gentle friction over Hayato’s balls as he slides his thumb back for another thrust. “Fuck, Takeshi, are you going to--”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says against Hayato’s skin, without lifting his head to see if Hayato is looking back at him or if he still has his head dipped down under the weight of sensation. He slides his thumb back and free of Hayato’s body, replacing the touch almost immediately with the slick fingers of his other hand, and when he pushes Hayato opens to his touch so easily Takeshi can fit two together knuckle-deep on the first stroke. “Better?”

“Fuck,” Hayato groans, heat and friction audible in his voice. He tenses around Takeshi’s fingers, one long shudder of friction before relaxing again so Takeshi can slide deeper into him. “Like that.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, agreement so easy it costs him nothing at all. “Okay.” He reaches farther between Hayato’s legs, makes the gentle hold he has on the other’s balls into deliberate motion instead, a careful press of his fingertips to offer the weight of his grip for a moment before he lets it go again, lets Hayato gasp for air as he thrusts the fingers of his other hand deeper. It makes for a gentle rhythm, something slow and warm and languid, and were it not for the ache of Takeshi’s cock hard inside his boxers he’d just stay like this, would work Hayato over with both hands until Hayato is shaking with the heat, maybe see if he could draw him quaking into orgasm with just this indirect sensation, without ever making direct contact with the flush of his cock. But he _is_ hard, his cock straining at the front of his boxers and dampening the fabric, and then Hayato growls, “Are you going to tease me all day?” and makes Takeshi’s mind up for him.

“No,” Takeshi admits. He presses another kiss to Hayato’s back, a drag of warm friction as he pulls away and straightens back over his wide-spread knees. He draws his hand from between Hayato’s thighs, reaches down for the edge of his boxers instead; it’s hard to push them off one-handed, but the elastic is loose and clings to the edge of his hips, and he manages it after some effort. Hayato is quiet while he works, silent but for the faint rhythm of his breathing, but when Takeshi shifts his weight Hayato slides his knees wider immediately without being asked, wide enough to make space for Takeshi’s between them. Takeshi takes the suggestion, fitting himself between the open angle of Hayato’s legs; his boxers are tangled around his knees but he doesn’t bother stripping them off any further, not when he’s already where he needs to be. His palm is still faintly slick, glides smooth over the heat of his cock, and then Hayato tips his hips to push himself back onto the resistance of Takeshi’s fingers in an unsubtle suggestion for greater speed.

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, even though Hayato hasn’t said anything, even though Hayato hasn’t even lifted his head from the forward tilt he’s been sustaining. “Here, I’m.” He lets the sentence fade, the meaning less important than the suggestion of the words, and when he slides his fingers back Hayato doesn’t protest, just takes a breath of anticipation as he clenches against Takeshi’s touch for a moment of shuddering expectation. The friction sends a surge of heat up Takeshi’s spine, crests itself into a breathless whine on the back of his tongue, and then he’s rocking in closer, replacing the pressure of his fingers with the head of his cock without more than a heartbeat of delay. Hayato groans, Takeshi sighs, and then they both move at once, Hayato pushing himself backwards at the same time Takeshi rocks his hips forward to thrust an inch into Hayato’s body. There’s a slick slide of friction, the grip of Hayato tensing hard against the resistance of Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi moans something hot and helpless and incoherent over the curve of Hayato’s body under him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Hayato gasps, and rocks back harder over the bed like he’s trying to fuck himself on Takeshi’s cock instead of waiting for the other to come to him. “ _God_ , Takeshi, _more_.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi manages, and gets a hand against Hayato’s hip to hold him steady and mostly-still so he can draw back, can take another long thrust forward. The friction unfolds up his spine, whites out his vision and steals his breathing; he can feel his balls drawing up hard against the base of his cock, his whole body shivering into tension at the first rush of sensation. “ _Ah_.”

“Takeshi,” Hayato’s saying, pushing back for more, grinding himself closer against Takeshi’s hips in pursuit of more friction. His voice has gone to heat, is grating over the back of his throat like it’s converting itself into shadows on the drag of desire. “Keep _moving_.”

“Okay,” Takeshi says, and does, pulling back to thrust in again for another starburst rush of heat. Hayato groans, head dipping down into the weight of surrender so Takeshi can see the back of his neck, can see the strain of heat lying along the top of his spine. Takeshi leans closer, dropping his shoulders so he can reach around Hayato’s hip, and Hayato hisses anticipation even before Takeshi’s fingers brush his length, before Takeshi has curled his hand into a steady grip around the other’s cock. Hayato’s hot to the touch, a few drops of precome coating the head of his cock slick and sticky, and Takeshi presses his thumb to them, drags his touch against sensitive skin to make Hayato’s hips jolt forward, to feel the way Hayato clenches hard around him.

“Fuck,” Hayato says, hot and rough and dragging, and Takeshi starts to move in truth, closes his hand around Hayato’s cock and sets a rhythm to his strokes as he draws his hips back for another thrust. Hayato doesn’t speak again -- he has his head bowed, is breathing hard enough for Takeshi to hear over the continuing sound of the forgotten movie -- but his hands are tightening at the sheets, his legs tensing in response to each of Takeshi’s movements in a better tell for his reactions than words would be. Takeshi’s attention is caught by the curve of Hayato’s neck, by the collar of his undershirt catching against the sweat-damp of his shoulders; Hayato’s straining over the sheets, his arms tense and spine arched, until Takeshi feels like every stroke of his hand might be what pushes Hayato over the breaking point. The television is flickering color, offering sound that goes unattended by either of them; Takeshi’s world has narrowed down to just the shape of Hayato in front of him, just the tension gathering in the line of his body and the electric heat of pleasure that surges up Takeshi’s spine with each forward thrust of his hips.

“God,” Hayato manages again, gasping the word into heat; Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, the effort of sustaining vision too much for him to bear with Hayato sounding like that, with the way the purr of Hayato’s voice shivers up his spine. “Takeshi, I.” His head tips down farther, his shoulders tensing together; Takeshi can see the shadow of the motion through the thin of his shirt, can see the dip between them forming into a valley as Hayato’s fingers close on the sheets under them. “Right there, Takeshi, don’t--”

“I won’t stop,” Takeshi says, rushing the words until they’re almost unintelligible on his tongue, until they’re tripping over themselves and into a spill of incoherent heat. Hayato’s hot in his hand, the shape of him pressing hard against Takeshi’s fingers; Takeshi slides his thumb up, drags over the slick at the head, and Hayato chokes on a groan, whimpering into desperation at the motion. Takeshi’s mouth is open, his breathing dragging in his chest; his whole body is hot, as tense with expectation as if Hayato’s orgasm is his own, as if they’re both hovering on the verge of a singular satisfaction. “Hayato?”

“Fuck,” Hayato gasps, so strained it sounds like a sob, like his voice is breaking against the inside of his chest. His body tenses, presses hard against the slide of Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi can’t breathe, can’t even think for the anticipation heavy in the air. Hayato takes a breath, drags at the sheets; Takeshi can feel him thrumming on expectation, hovering at the edge of satisfaction, and then: “Tak _eshi_ ” and he comes, his exhale gusting so hard it sounds like a sob as his cock twitches and spills hot over Takeshi’s fingers. Takeshi’s breathing goes, the air leaving his lungs in a gasp of satisfaction, and Hayato’s tensing around him in waves of heat, his body clenching hot against Takeshi’s cock with each rush of pleasure that hits him. Takeshi thrusts deeper, a reflexive response he can’t fight back, and Hayato makes a desperate sound against the sheets, whimpering into a high range that sets all Takeshi’s blood on fire. He draws back, thrusts forward again, and Hayato’s tipping forward over the bed, his shoulders dropping to the support of the mattress like he can’t hold himself up, like the heat of his orgasm is melting all the strength from his arms. The angle makes a slope of his back, slides the weight of his undershirt up to catch around his shoulders, and Takeshi takes a breath and hears it stick into a groan of appreciation far in the back of his throat as he slides forward into Hayato again, as he draws another shudder along the line of the other’s spine. He can’t catch his breath, can’t cool the heat burning under his skin, and then he pushes forward and Hayato gasps “ _Takeshi_ ” and everything goes white, Takeshi’s vision and his breathing both forgotten to the rush of heat that breaks over him. Hayato’s name is on his tongue, the syllables too well-learned to be lost even in incoherency, but there’s no thought in his head, nothing at all in his awareness except for the shuddering waves of pleasure that are breaking over him and pulling him into the relief of orgasm.

It’s some time before Takeshi collects himself enough to parse the details of their surroundings again. He’s tipped in over Hayato’s back, one hand still braced at the other’s hip; it takes him a breath to steady himself, another to muster the willpower to slide free of the slick heat of Hayato’s body. Hayato hisses at the friction, the sound half-protest and mostly-heat, and Takeshi leans in closer, ducking his head so he can press his lips to the salt-damp collecting in the dip of Hayato’s spine.

“We missed the ending,” Hayato says while Takeshi’s mouth is still fitting against the flushed warmth of his skin. Takeshi pulls away, lifts his head enough to see the television; the credits are scrolling across the screen, neat lines of white text on black background that he’s too heat-hazy to bother reading.

“Too bad,” he says, not feeling at all contrite, and lowers his head for another kiss, this time against the curve of Hayato’s waist. “I’ll try to pay attention next time.”

“No you won’t,” Hayato growls at him. He twists under Takeshi’s hold, tipping sideways over the bed as he reaches up to press his fingers into the other’s hair; his touch is gentle in spite of the edge on his voice, his palm warm against Takeshi’s cheek when he turns in to meet it. “You’ll just get _distracted_ again.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, glancing up through his hair to catch Hayato’s gaze, to see the tug of tension at the corner of the other’s mouth. His lips curve, satisfaction too warm to be withheld, and Hayato’s expression breaks into a smile, the bright of it sparkling into his eyes as he looks down at Takeshi.

“Idiot,” he says, sliding his fingers to curl around the back of Takeshi’s head. “The things I let you get away with.” Takeshi shuts his eyes, smiling at the friction of Hayato’s fingers in his hair, and when Hayato tugs Takeshi lets himself be urged closer to fit his mouth against the sticky salt clinging to the other’s stomach.

By the time they make it off the bed and towards the shower, the movie has looped back around to the opening menu. Neither of them pays enough attention to bother turning it off.


	12. Indulgent

“This one too,” Takeshi says, murmuring the words into a spill of heat across Hayato’s palm. “You always wear so much jewelry, Hayato.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says. It’s easy to agree with a patently true statement, the easier when he’s sprawled comfortably across the floor of their hotel room atop one of the pillows cast aside sometime in the middle of the night. There’s a ray of sunlight sliding through the half-drawn blinds over the window; it makes Hayato squint, flashes light into his face until it’s hard to see past the haze of illumination, but it’s warm, too, glowing bright against his skin until the urge to turn his face towards it overrides the desire to maintain clear vision. It’s not really as if he needs to have his eyes open anyway; Hayato can identify the drag of Takeshi’s lips gliding across his open palm without needing to actually see what’s happening.

“I could take them off myself,” he offers, drawling the words slow and warm like syrup in the back of his throat as Takeshi catches the tip of a finger at his mouth and slides warm wet across Hayato’s skin so he can catch the other’s ring with his teeth. “It would be faster, if you wanted.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, drawing back to leave Hayato’s finger unburdened of his jewelry and warmly damp from the press of the other’s mouth. “I like it like this.”

“Okay,” Hayato agrees. There’s nothing to argue about, even if he weren’t too drowsy to go looking for a point of contention; the drag of Takeshi’s mouth feels good, damp and soft and gentle like he’s trying to fit kisses into all the creases of Hayato’s hands, and Hayato isn’t sure what Takeshi is doing with his freed rings but he can’t find it in him to care very much. “Are you going to undress me with just your teeth, then?”

Takeshi laughs, the sound coming so easily it makes Hayato smile into the warm glow of the sunlight against his face. “Just your hands,” he admits, pausing to suck against Hayato’s index finger so he can catch his teeth gently under the bottom edge of the other’s ring. Hayato’s fingertip presses to the very back of Takeshi’s tongue, far enough that he can feel the motion of the other’s mouth when he swallows; he doesn’t shift to push in further or to draw away, just lets his hand hang with the weight of passivity as Takeshi works his jewelry free. “You have such nice fingers, Hayato.”

“Bianchi calls them musician’s hands,” Hayato offers. Takeshi’s hand is bracing around his wrist, holding the other’s hand steady as he catches his lips to the very tip of Hayato’s thumb; Hayato can feel the smooth line of calluses laid across Takeshi’s palm and against the inside of his knuckles, the texture sliding as gentle as his touch across the pulse running steady at the inside of Hayato’s wrist. “Not that I’ve been a musician for years, but.”

“No,” Takeshi says. His thumb slides up over the thud of Hayato’s pulse and to the inside of his palm, presses weight against the curve of it; Hayato can feel the pleasant ache of the pressure radiate down his arm and draw a groan of appreciation up his throat. Takeshi shifts his weight onto his elbows to free his other hand, catches Hayato’s palm between both at once; laid alongside each other his thumbs fit perfectly into the dip of Hayato’s hand, press close together to weight comfort against the other’s skin. “I see what she means.” One thumb slides out, rising out of the hollow of Hayato’s palm to press against the base of his thumb and up to the knuckle; there’s an ache that comes with it, the relief of knuckles cracking without the sharp snap of sound that usually accompanies them. “They look really elegant.”

“You always say that,” Hayato smiles, and turns his head away from the sunlight to blink bright-blind vision into focus on Takeshi’s bowed head. Takeshi’s gaze is lowered to Hayato’s hand, his lashes lying dark across his cheekbones; as Hayato watches he ducks close to catch his lips at the edge of the other’s thumb, to outline a kiss against the texture of his skin. Hayato shifts his hand, flexes his fingers out of passivity for a moment, and Takeshi’s lips part in immediate capitulation to make space for the press of Hayato’s thumb into his mouth. “You think everything about me is elegant.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, and Hayato slides his touch back and away, drags his thumb against Takeshi’s lower lip as he goes to slide the shine of damp across the soft of it. Takeshi smiles quick, flutters his gaze up to meet Hayato’s attention again. “It is, though. You are.”

“Am I?” Hayato asks, still smiling so the words come out weighted with warmth that he doesn’t try to strip away. “I’m a very serious and important person, you know. The Vongola Tenth’s right hand man, feared by many.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says. Hayato draws his hand up, trails all four of his fingers across the catch of the smile curling the corner of Takeshi’s mouth up. “And you have elegant hands.”

“I build bombs with these,” Hayato tells him. He shifts, draws his other arm away from the angle it’s been cutting across his stomach so he can get his elbow to the floor, can push himself to a more upright angle. Takeshi falls back as fast as Hayato sits up, twisting to lie back across the floor as he blinks up at Hayato leaning over him, smiling against the weight of Hayato’s fingers at his mouth. “Deadly weapons, you know.” Hayato’s teasing, he can feel himself starting to smile involuntarily; he spreads his fingers wide, fits ring and index to the corners of the other’s smile before sliding the middle against the willing part of Takeshi’s lips. His fingers look strange without their usual weight of jewelry; the only metal left on him from elbow to fingertips is the plain gold of the wedding ring lying against the faint scars on his skin.

“Ah,” Takeshi allows, opening his mouth wider to let Hayato’s touch slide over his tongue before he closes his lips into a gentle hold and sucks pressure against the other’s skin. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his expression going slack with attention; he makes the action look like a religious experience, as if his entire life has been a matter of waiting to have Hayato’s fingers sliding into the heat of his mouth.

“And you want them in your mouth,” Hayato says, since Takeshi’s tongue is better occupied by his current actions than by speech. He turns over completely, twisting to pin Takeshi down to the floor by the shadow of his shoulders across the other’s body; Takeshi rolls onto his back with the guidance of Hayato’s fingertips pushing at his lips, falls unresisting over the floor without even opening his eyes to see Hayato leaning over him. “Do you just have some kind of an oral fixation?”

Takeshi laughs, a bright surge of sound muffled into softness by the press of Hayato’s fingers; Hayato draws his touch free, slides his hand away and down the edge of Takeshi’s jaw to the line of his throat, and Takeshi blinks himself back into attention, still smiling warm and hazy and dreamy. “Maybe,” he admits, and turns his head to give Hayato a better angle on the line of his t-shirt collar so the other can hook his fingers under the fabric and draw it wide over Takeshi’s collarbone. “I think I just like your hands.”

“Oh?” Hayato asks. He presses his thumb to Takeshi’s shoulder, slides across to see the way it fits into the dip just under the other’s throat; Takeshi trembles with the pressure, his back threatening to arch up for more, and Hayato draws his hand away to reach for the hem of his shirt instead. “Is that all?” The fabric is loose, laid close to Takeshi’s skin more by gravity than fit; there’s more than enough space for Hayato’s hand to slide between. He touches his fingertips to bare skin, watches the way Takeshi’s eyelashes shiver at the contact, flexes his fingers to catch the threat of a scratch against the soft skin of Takeshi’s stomach. “You don’t care what I’m doing, then, as long as you can feel my hands?”  
“Yeah,” Takeshi says, and his back is arching, now, bringing him off the support of the floor and towards Hayato’s touch like it’s the greater attractive force, like gravity has taken a backseat to the tension Hayato can feel collecting in the muscle under his touch. “That sounds right.”

“I should test the hypothesis,” Hayato hums. He rocks his weight back over his knees, freeing his other hand from bracing his angle over Takeshi; the shift lets the sunlight from the window touch Takeshi’s face, too, the light clinging to hair and lashes to bring out hints of gold in the dark. Takeshi flinches from the sudden illumination, laughs startled appreciation, and Hayato sets his hands on either side of Takeshi’s body, under the rumpled edge of his shirt so he can press his fingertips directly against bare skin. When he pushes up the strain in Takeshi’s spine shifts to follow him, the curve of the other’s back pressing his chest up to meet Hayato’s touch as he slides the shirt higher off Takeshi’s skin.

“So this is good,” Hayato says, letting one hand come sideways to spread wide across Takeshi’s chest while he catches the hem of the t-shirt with the other and draws it up and off Takeshi’s shoulders. Takeshi lifts his arms without being asked, makes a clear line of his body for Hayato to strip his clothing off, and Hayato drags the shirt free and tosses it aside without looking. Takeshi blinks up at him, squinting against the glow of the sunlight, and Hayato spreads his pinkie finger wide to flick against the dark of Takeshi’s nipple. Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his head tips back on a half-voiced groan, and Hayato reaches down for the weight of his jeans as he stretches his thumb out to span the breadth of Takeshi’s chest and press glancing friction to sensitive skin. “Is this better?”

“Oh,” Takeshi breathes, his voice breaking on heat as his knees tilt involuntarily wider, as his hips rock up against nothing for a moment of telltale reflex. “Hayato.”

“Yes?” Hayato catches a nipple between thumb and index finger, tugs for a moment of pressure, and Takeshi whines, reaches out to catch Hayato’s hips with his hands as he rocks up again. His lips are parted, his breathing coming visibly faster in his chest; Hayato can see the depth of his inhales, can feel the shift of them under the weight of his palm. “Better than sucking on my fingers, maybe?” He curls his hand around Takeshi’s hip just over the edge of his jeans, digs his hold in hard to make Takeshi shudder with the friction. “Do you want more?”

Takeshi exhales in a rush, his legs flexing as he arches up again; Hayato can feel how hot he’s going, can feel his skin turning radiant with the heat rising to meet Hayato’s touch. It’s an answer in itself, neatly sidestepping any need for coherency, and it makes Hayato laugh as he braces Takeshi’s button against his fingers and pushes it free of the denim with his thumb.

“Like this, maybe?” he asks, dragging the zipper down so he can fit his fingers inside Takeshi’s jeans, can weight his palm against the thin of Takeshi’s boxers to grind over the heat of the other’s cock rising inside them. Takeshi’s back curves, his chest curving to meet Hayato’s fingers, and Hayato twists at his nipple again, urging a whimper of response from the other’s throat before Hayato lets him go and draws his hand down along the midline of Takeshi’s chest. “Or are you going to be greedy?” His fingers hit elastic, catch and slide under as Takeshi’s stomach flutters taut on heat; Hayato fits his touch to coarse-curling hair, brushes the weight of his fingertips against the resistance of Takeshi’s cock. Takeshi’s hips cant sideways, rising to buck hard against Hayato’s palm, and Hayato closes his hand into a hold, pushing Takeshi’s clothes down with the weight of his wrist as he slides down in a stroke to tense Takeshi’s shoulders, to drag his throat thrumming on a groan of sudden sound.

“More like this?” Hayato asks. There’s a tangle of fabric around his hand, the barrier of Takeshi’s jeans and boxers covering too much of him to allow clear line of sight; he’s watching the other’s face instead, his breathing coming faster with each dip of Takeshi’s eyelashes, with each convulsive swallow of heat in his arched-back throat. “Is this where you want my hands, Takeshi?”

“Hh,” Takeshi gasps. He’s rocking up into Hayato’s hold, the shift of his hips finding a rhythm that Hayato doesn’t intend; Hayato thinks he could just keep them like this, with Takeshi half-dressed and Hayato’s hold still around him, thinks that Takeshi would be content to fuck against the weight of his fingers even without any active effort on Hayato’s part. But then Takeshi swallows his throat clear of heat, and turns his chin down, and when he opens his eyes his gaze is steady enough, if so dark on desire his eyes look nearly black in place of their usual gold.

“Hayato,” he says, his voice lower than usual, dropping to the purring depth that runs electricity through Hayato’s veins, that seizes his breathing taut into a gasp of adrenaline. “ _More_.”

Hayato has to let his breath go, has to gasp an inhale only marginally cooler than the steam that filled his chest a moment before. “More?” he repeats, swinging the end of the word into an imitation of inquiry, an impression of confusion as he tightens his hand on Takeshi’s length and strokes a deliberate rush of friction over the other’s skin. “But I’m already jerking you off.” He slides his free hand out of the tangle of clothing, reaches to grab at the edge of Takeshi’s loosened jeans and pull them down by an inch; he doesn’t look down but Takeshi does, Hayato can see the dark of his eyes slide away from Hayato’s face to watch the slide of pale fingers over flushed skin instead. Takeshi’s throat works on a silent, reflexive swallow, and Hayato goes all-over hot just from the shift of the other’s lashes as he blinks.

“More,” Hayato says again, and it’s not a question this time, and he doesn’t try to make it one. Takeshi arches when he pulls at his clothes again, rocks his hips up and clear of the floor; he’s pushing at the other side, helping Hayato’s one-handed efforts to strip his jeans off his legs, and between the two of them it’s a rapid process even with one of Hayato’s hands occupied in setting a steady rhythm over Takeshi’s cock. “Where else could you _possibly_ want me?” Takeshi kicks his feet free, Hayato shoves the jeans aside, and then Takeshi spreads his knees apart and Hayato slides between them in a single motion, their actions correlated without any more planning than the instinctive coordination of years of experience.

Hayato reaches out, touches his fingers to Takeshi’s throat. “Here?” Takeshi’s chin comes up to make an offering of his pulse, but Hayato’s already pulling away, dropping his hand down to the other’s wrist, to the palm-up suggestion Takeshi is making of his arm. “Here?” And away again, because he’s not guessing at all, and because Takeshi’s knees are sliding wider the farther down his hand goes, his thighs making an open invitation of themselves before Hayato has even touched him.

“Here,” Hayato purrs, and his fingers brush over warm skin, teasing against Takeshi’s entrance with friction absent the threat of pressure. Takeshi sighs an exhale, sags limp against the floor, and Hayato grins unseen, the easy submission of the other in front of him as much a flare for the fire in his blood as the bare skin laid out for his appreciation. “This is what you want.” He pushes a little harder, shifts to make a suggestion of his touch, and he can feel Takeshi opening up to him, relaxing into the weight even without the ease of lubrication. Hayato waits a moment, long enough for Takeshi’s breathing to tense on anticipation; then he draws his hand away, lifts it to his mouth instead, and by the time Takeshi is gasping at the loss and blinking up at him Hayato has his fingers in his mouth, is sucking wet over them with the businesslike efficiency demanded by the heat in his cock and the easy give of Takeshi’s body to his touch.

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, and pushes himself halfway to upright, balancing on one elbow while he reaches for the front of Hayato’s jeans. Hayato strokes over him, an unfair attempt to distract him from whatever he’s planning, but while Takeshi shudders and rocks up into the friction he still gets his fingers under Hayato’s belt, pushing at the buckle with the singleminded focus that has always characterized his pursuit of those things he deems worthy of his attention. Hayato draws his fingers free of his mouth, reaches back for the heat of Takeshi’s entrance, but Takeshi has his belt undone, is maneuvering the zipper down as fast as Hayato can get his fingers lined up. Hayato tips closer, forcing Takeshi back towards the floor with the threat of his shoulders, but even as Takeshi goes he’s pulling at Hayato’s clothes, dragging the denim loose of his hips as Hayato pulls a rush of friction over the other’s cock to match the growl in his throat.

“Are you trying to _distract_ me?” he demands, pressing damp against Takeshi’s entrance to ease the friction against him. Takeshi groans, his head falling back to the floor, and Hayato pushes at him with one finger, enough to suggest penetration without giving it in fact. “Is this not what you want?”

“I want it,” Takeshi says, fast, one hand seizing into a fist at Hayato’s clothing; but the other is sliding inside, reaching for the flush of the other’s cock with complete confidence, and Hayato’s exhale rushes to heat from his lips as Takeshi’s fingertips skim the head of his length. “I want this too.”

“Greedy,” Hayato purrs, his smile dragging slack and melting on the warmth uncurling along his spine. He shifts his hand, angles his wrist to press against Takeshi’s entrance, and this time when he pushes it’s with intent, enough to ease his touch just past the spit-slick at the other’s skin and into the tense heat of his body. “You just want everything all the time, don’t you?”

“Ah,” Takeshi says, his lashes fluttering, his expression going slack as he clenches in a spasm of pleasure around Hayato’s touch, but his hand is still moving, trailing down the curve of Hayato’s cock to the base, closing into an upside-down hold to draw up over him in a way that makes Hayato groan, makes his hips buck forward for more in spite of his intention of focusing on the dip of his fingers. “I do, yeah.”

“I spoil you,” Hayato tells him as he spreads his knees wider, steadies his balance and curves his spine to lean in closer. Takeshi abandons his hold on Hayato’s clothes in favor of getting an elbow back under him to hold his weight up, his shoulders flexing with the effort of supporting his weight; the angle shifts his hips, makes the slide of Hayato’s finger into him more difficult, but it also runs their hands together, presses the inside of their wrists against each other in a drag of friction that is as much suggestion as heat. Hayato pushes his finger in deeper, following a deliberately slow rhythm to angle Takeshi’s thighs wider without any of the friction-burn too much too fast would bring, and then he lets his hold on the other’s cock ease, loosens his grip enough that he can reach up and around and tangle his fingers atop Takeshi’s hold on his own length.

“Only because it’s a special occasion,” Hayato tells Takeshi as the other lets his hand fall away, angling his arm back to match the support of the first and keep him half-off the floor. There’s a strain visible in his chest, the effort of keeping himself upright trembling across his shoulders, but the tension doesn’t touch the warm relaxation of his expression any more than it seems to affect the easy give of his body as Hayato finishes out his first stroke and starts to draw back with the same deliberate slowness he used going in. “You had better not start expecting this kind of indulgence on an everyday basis.”

“Yeah,” Takeshi says, his chin tucked down towards his chest, his eyelashes fluttering dark with every stroke of Hayato’s hand over them. “I won’t, Hayato, I won’t.”

“It’s only because I feel like it,” Hayato tells him, trying another thrust of his finger at quarter-speed to the leisurely strokes he’s taking with his hand. He’s moving slow, by necessity inside Takeshi’s body and by choice over their cocks, but it feels good low in his stomach, the purr of heat rising along his spine a whisper of a promise instead of a rush towards some finish line. Hayato can hear the pattern of Takeshi’s breathing, can see it clear in the gap between his shirt and the flush of Takeshi’s bare skin; when he tenses his finger to press against Takeshi’s inner walls he can hear the catch of heat at the other’s tongue to match the sudden ripple of tension that runs through his body. “Because you look so good.”

Takeshi’s eyelashes tremble, his chin comes up; when he looks up his head angles back on the curve of his neck, canting back into a steep line like he can’t hold the weight of it properly. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” Hayato tells him, the compliments slurring sincerity on his tongue, the warm pleasure of explicit honesty an unusual satisfaction in his chest. He draws his touch out of Takeshi entirely, brings his hand back to his mouth to suck over his fingers again; when he reaches back out Takeshi eases for him immediately, anticipating the press of two fingers together before Hayato has even touched him. “Yeah, you do.” His fingers sink in easy, the friction they bring in their wake slow enough that Hayato can see it work in the curve of Takeshi’s throat, can hear it strain hard on the shape of his breathing. “You always get so hot for me when I’m doing nothing at all.” His fingers slide deeper, his grip over them tightens; Hayato can feel Takeshi’s cock twitch hard at the friction of his own, the surge of heat in the other’s body urging answering fire in him. “I don’t even have to touch you, you’ll just get my fingers in your mouth and get yourself so warm you’re ready before I’ve even taken your clothes off.” Takeshi is staring at him, his eyes wide and dark and heat-hazed; even when Hayato angles his fingers wider to press far inside the other Takeshi doesn’t look away, doesn’t shut his eyes as his gaze slides into the unfocus of heat, as his cock jerks response to the fingers inside him more than the grip dragging over him. Hayato’s breathing catches, his hips coming forward into a reflexive thrust of friction, and he flexes his fingers again, abandoning the general friction of thrusting for the deliberate accuracy of pressing his fingertips inside Takeshi’s body.

“You just let me watch you,” Hayato goes on, feeling his coherency start to fail, seeing from the part of Takeshi’s lips that it doesn’t really matter, that any attention the other has left is caught somewhere between Hayato’s hands and far from the logic needed to process speech. “I can see everything I’m doing to you just in the way you’re looking at me, Takeshi.” He angles his fingers, pushes in harder, and Takeshi tenses under him, his mouth coming open and his eyes blowing dark at the pressure.

“Like that,” Hayato says, and does it again, watches Takeshi’s lashes part wide on the black-intensity of his pupils, watches his mouth come open as his gaze slips from Hayato’s eyes to his lips, to his throat, back to his eyes for a moment before melting away again. Takeshi’s breathing hard, his legs trembling with each inhale, and Hayato can see each jolt of heat that runs through him, can shift his hands into a faster rhythm until each shudder is running atop the last, until there’s no space for Takeshi to breathe for each ripple. “Just like that” and Hayato is breathing harder too, his chest straining on the electricity along his spine as Takeshi’s cock twitches against his, as Takeshi’s body clenches reflexive anticipation against his fingers. “I can watch you come for me” and he pushes hard, drags his hold up and over the head of Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi groans and shudders once through his whole body as he spills wet across the tremor of his stomach. He’s still staring at Hayato, his eyes wide and dark like the sight of the other’s face is drawing him through orgasm, and Hayato doesn’t pull his fingers away from the other’s body, lets his touch and the pressure linger even as Takeshi’s cock jerks through the last of his orgasm, as the strain in Takeshi’s shoulders finally eases to drop him boneless and gasping across the floor. The sunlight falls back over his face, kisses gold into his lashes and across the sheen of sweat along his jaw, and it takes all Hayato has to draw his fingers free slowly instead of in a rush. Takeshi shudders at the drag, whimpering a sound so high and desperate he starts to laugh as Hayato’s hand comes free, but Hayato isn’t about to be distracted even by the sunbright clear of Takeshi’s amusement. He’s rocking forward instead, letting his hold pinning their cocks together go to brace himself on the floor alongside Takeshi’s waist instead, and then his hand is around himself, his fingers spit-slick and warm from the heat of Takeshi’s body as Hayato shifts his hold and drops into the familiar, efficient rhythm of jerking himself off. Takeshi’s still breathing hard under him, his stomach fluttering with each inhale he takes; there’s damp all across his body, sweat clinging to the dip between his collarbones and the spill of salt-slick dripping against the curve of his hip. Hayato can see the catch of it on Takeshi’s skin, proof of the other’s satisfaction clinging to the tremor of heat still running through each breath, can picture the way his own would look pooling against Takeshi’s stomach and catching on the rhythm of his breathing, can imagine-- and his body tenses, his cock jerks, and when he comes it’s to spurt hot lines of white across Takeshi’s stomach and the planes of his chest, the liquid spilling to mingle with the mess already sticky over Takeshi’s skin. It looks good, Hayato thinks, almost as good as Takeshi does himself, and it’s enough to draw pulse after pulse of heat through him as he lets his orgasm burn off the tension in his body to leave him shaky and breathless over Takeshi on the floor.

They’re both quiet for a moment after; Hayato because he’s still trembling with heat, Takeshi because he’s blinking vaguely at the ceiling, looking like all the thoughts in his head have been knocked loose by the impact of pleasure in his veins. Hayato stares at him for a handful of long seconds, his attention caught by the shift of Takeshi’s eyelashes in the sunlight and the soft give of his lips as he breathes; he’s still lingering in the warm distraction of his attention when Takeshi blinks himself back into focus and looks down to meet his gaze.

Takeshi’s smile is very soft. “Hayato.” He lifts a hand, the movement heavier than it should be so Hayato can see the effort that goes into the action as Takeshi raises his fingers to skim the line of Hayato’s jaw. When he blinks it scatters sunlight, shadows his eyes just long enough to let the gold of the glow fill them back up again when he opens his eyes wide. “I love you so much.”

“I know,” Hayato tells him. “You always get sappy right after sex.” Takeshi laughs, the sound as warm as his eyes, and Hayato grins and leans in closer, curving his shoulders to bring him close enough to catch Takeshi’s lips with his own. He lingers for a moment, savouring the give of the other’s mouth under his, and even when he pulls back it’s only to murmur “I love you too, Takeshi” before returning to kiss the answering smile at the other’s mouth.

Takeshi’s fingers are gentle on his skin.


	13. Contact

“Hayato,” Takeshi starts, hearing his voice skid so high and pleading it nearly has the giveaway edge of a whine under it. “Can’t I touch you yet?”

Hayato doesn’t even open his eyes to shake his head. “No,” he says, so sure on the refusal Takeshi doesn’t even think about asking again in hopes of a different answer. “Not yet. Be patient.”

“I am,” Takeshi says, and he is; it’s a testament to his patience that his hands are carefully distant from Hayato’s skin, and another that he hasn’t yet reached down to mirror the slow drag of Hayato’s hand on himself with his own body. The ache of want is lying all along the curve of his spine, a dull ache like a deep bruise rising to the visibility of his skin; Takeshi can feel it hurt in the same almost-pleasant way, can feel the tug of want and the resistance of temptation making for a tension in his body that is closer to pleasure than to pain. The self-denial is an exercise in restraint, one Takeshi doesn’t mind for himself, but it’s made more challenging by the open display of Hayato’s bare skin across the bed in front of him, by the angle of the other’s knees like he’s making an invitation and just waiting for Takeshi to take it. The slow drag of his fingers over himself, the taut line of his throat every time he swallows; these are as much for Takeshi’s benefit as for his own, as much to be seen as to be felt.

Takeshi knows all this. It’s why he hasn’t distracted himself yet with the friction of a hand curling around his own length, why he’s let the steady thud of desire that hits him with every heartbeat ache in his untouched cock without so much as contemplating stroking up over the flushed skin. It’s as much a part of the fun as the satisfaction of watching Hayato tremble against the bed, of watching the tiny involuntary motions along his thighs and across the flat of his stomach every time he slides his fingers across the swollen head of his cock, of watching the way Hayato’s eyelashes flutter sometimes to shadow a glance at Takeshi to see the unstudied expression of want Takeshi knows is all over his face and getting clearer with every tremor in Hayato’s body. Hayato likes to see the desire in his eyes, likes to hear it quiver in his voice, and so: “Please,” Takeshi says again, letting his voice shake without putting either restraint or drama on the word. “Hayato, please, I want to touch you.”

“Not yet,” Hayato says, and tips his head towards the bedside table. “Hand me the lube, Takeshi.”

Takeshi does whimper, then, the sound completely unintentional in the rush of heat that hits him, but he moves, too, leaning sideways and bracing himself over the line of Hayato’s leg so he can reach for the bottle in question. His cock aches with the movement, resisting the force of gravity with the tension of desire; when he looks back to offer the retrieved bottle Hayato is watching his hips, considering the weight of his cock with so much shadowed appreciation in his eyes that Takeshi flushes hot all over his body with a ripple of tension running through him that he can’t fight back even if he cared to. He thinks for a moment Hayato might be about to reach for him, might be about to let him come closer, but: “Leave it on the bed,” Hayato tells him, and Takeshi does, sets the bottle within easy reach and rocks back to his original position kneeling between Hayato’s ankles. Hayato takes another stroke, two, slow and drawn-out so Takeshi can hear his breathing catch on the sensation; then he lets himself go to reach for the bottle instead. His hands are shaky as he gets the lid open; Takeshi can see the tremor in his wrists, can watch the way Hayato’s mouth sets into the focused attention necessary to still the movement in his hands as he spills liquid across his fingers. The light overhead catches off the damp, shines bright across Hayato’s skin; then he’s capping the bottle again, dropping it back to the tangle of sheets alongside him, and when he reaches down for himself it’s with the slick of his fingers as a promise of intent.

“Just watch,” Hayato says, flushing faintly pink across his cheeks and the sharp edges of his collarbones as self-consciousness takes the lead over the distraction of arousal. But Takeshi barely spares a glance for the color staining Hayato’s skin; his attention is drawn to the other’s movement, to the shift of Hayato’s hand as he fits his fingers against his entrance. Takeshi’s breathing catches at the angle of Hayato’s fingers, his attention tangled where it is by the slick drag of skin-on-skin, and then Hayato moves to slide the first knuckle of one finger inside himself and it’s Takeshi who moans, a faint breathless noise of relief as if he’s the one feeling the friction.

“Like that,” Hayato says, and Takeshi isn’t sure if he’s talking to Takeshi or if the words are meant for himself; they’re low enough that they could be either, and when Takeshi glances up at his face Hayato’s eyes are shut, his lips parted on his breathing and giving no indication one way or the other. It doesn’t make much of a difference, anyway; Hayato’s sliding deeper into himself, the elegant line of his fingers shifting as he moves, and Takeshi can watch the sharp twist of his wrist as he sinks in farther, can imagine the flutter of tension as Hayato clenches around himself in time with the overheated exhale that spills from his lips. He draws his touch back by an inch, slides in again, and then he reaches out with his other hand for the weight of his cock and Takeshi’s attention comes up again to follow the fit of Hayato’s fingers around himself, to watch the practiced slide of his thumb across the slick at the head of his cock. Hayato shudders against the bed, some of the tension in his body easing into slack appreciation, and Takeshi can feel heat pooling in his stomach, can feel the ache along his spine spreading up to strain across his shoulders and close his idle hands into fists. He wants to touch Hayato’s bare skin, wants to press his mouth into the shadows between the top edge of his thigh and the heat of his cock, wants to feel the little involuntary motions of response he can see thrumming through the other as if he’s resonating with some unheard sound; but he stays where he is, looks instead of touching, and if his cock is starting to go slick with pre-come just from the tension coiling in his body, well, there’s a drawn-out pleasure in that too. Hayato’s flush of embarrassment is gone now, the color of it given way to a darker shade rising under his skin to cling to the angle of his cheekbones and the part of his lips and all across the strain in his chest; Takeshi can see it spreading over his skin, can see the heat rising in the other’s body as clearly as it has flushed his cock. Hayato’s fingers shift, a second dipping and sliding in alongside the first, and his head goes back, the motion tangling his hair on the sheets as his inhale catches into a gasp in his throat. Takeshi’s thighs tense, his hips trying to rock up for nonexistent friction, and Hayato’s foot slides across the sheets, finding traction enough for him to push himself up for an inch of arching height. His hips come up, his back curves, and when his fingers sink into himself Takeshi can hear the slick sound of the movement, can see the way Hayato’s other hand seizes tight on reflexive response against his cock.

“Fuck,” Hayato gasps, and falls back to the bed, his knee still angled high like he’s not sure he’s going to stay down. His eyes are open but he’s not looking at Takeshi anymore; he’s staring at the wall, his gaze so unfocused Takeshi isn’t sure he’s noticed that he’s turned his head in that shuddering moment of heat. “God, this feels.” His hand is stroking faster over himself, his fingers dipping farther; Takeshi can see the effort flexing in Hayato’s wrist, can watch the tell for the motion as he presses friction inside himself at the depth of his thrust. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, his voice falling over some unseen edge into shadow, into want so all-consuming he can taste it on his tongue, can feel it reverberate in his chest. “ _Please_ , can I--”

Hayato gasps air, blinks hard; after a moment he turns his head and ducks his chin to meet Takeshi’s gaze. Takeshi can see his eyelashes flutter heavy at whatever he sees in the other’s face, can watch Hayato’s mouth come open on appreciation; for a moment they’re just staring at each other, Takeshi’s breathing sticking to heat in his chest and Hayato’s mouth so soft he can’t even manage a grin.

“Takeshi,” Hayato says, matching the accidental resonance of Takeshi’s voice. He uncurls his fingers from around his length, lifts his arm to extend his hand towards the other; the flex of his fingers is an order, a suggestion, a command made languid on certainty of obedience. “Come _here_.”

And Takeshi does. He’s tipping forward before he moves his knees, collapsing over the soft of the sheets and reaching immediately for the temptation of Hayato’s hips so he can close his fingers over the flushed heat that’s radiating off all Hayato’s skin. Hayato groans at the contact, his hand landing heavy and certain at the back of Takeshi’s head, and Takeshi presses closer without hesitating to kiss hard against that shadow along Hayato’s thigh. His cheek bumps Hayato’s cock, his hair catches against the head, and Hayato shudders, his hand forming to a fist in Takeshi’s hair and dragging to urge him sideways. Takeshi lingers a moment, long enough to run his tongue along the salt-sweat clinging to Hayato’s skin; and then he comes up, lifting his head and parting his lips and taking Hayato’s cock back over the wet slick of his tongue. Hayato makes a sound too low even to be a groan, something made entirely of heat and shadow and appreciation, and when his hips come up Takeshi doesn’t try to pull away, just sucks harder to take Hayato into his mouth as Hayato thrusts back towards his throat. Takeshi’s lips press flush to hot skin, his tongue is filled with bitter salt, and he’s moaning without meaning to, appreciation so sweet in his veins he doesn’t think through the sound he’s making. He lets Hayato’s hip go, his hand dropping down between the other’s legs to his fingers instead, and Hayato meets him, catching Takeshi’s hand and pressing slick lubrication over his fingers from what remains across his palm. Takeshi draws his head back against the insistent weight of Hayato’s hand in his hair, presses his fingers to Hayato’s entrance, and Hayato opens to the pressure immediately, lets the stretch of Takeshi’s fingers slide inches into him on the first tentative stroke. Takeshi groans again, rocks up over his elbow to brace himself, and then he’s coming back down, sliding the other’s cock as far back in his mouth as he can take him while he slides his fingers into the tensing heat of Hayato’s body. Hayato’s thigh is under his shoulder, he can feel the flex of the other’s leg as Takeshi works his fingers inside him, and then Hayato moves, slides his knee sideways until it’s pressed flush against the midline of Takeshi’s chest like a support far warmer than the sheets provide. The heat alone is pleasant, the contact sating the edge of the ache in Takeshi’s veins, but then Hayato gets his ankle down against Takeshi’s hips, and presses against Takeshi’s cock, and Takeshi chokes himself off into a groan and rocks forward to grind himself against the resistance offered by the arch of Hayato’s foot. There’s not much precision to the motion -- there’s only so much Hayato can manage, and Takeshi’s not bothering with more than the instinct of movement -- but he doesn’t really need it anyway, not with the knot of want in his stomach coming undone with each drag of friction. He’s still moving his fingers, sliding into Hayato in a rhythm as much learned reflex as deliberate, and he’s barely moving his head at all, just holding still and letting the thrusting motions of Hayato’s hips guide the drag of his lips. Hayato’s hot against his throat, slick and salty on his tongue, and when Takeshi pushes his fingers farther into him he can feel the jolt that runs through the other, can feel the strain of anticipation that stills him into a line of tension against the bed. His legs are shaking, his back arching, his fingers tensing, and then Takeshi shifts his fingers and Hayato gasps himself hoarse and spills into his mouth, pulsing heat against Takeshi’s tongue as he shivers and tenses in quivering jolts against the bed. Takeshi can feel Hayato clenching against his fingers, can feel the wave of tension that accompanies each spurt of liquid into his mouth, and his thoughts are blurring into haze, his attention caught between the satisfaction of Hayato’s orgasm and the not-quite-there edge of his own. Hayato shudders again, his leg tensing under Takeshi’s chest, and Takeshi’s hips come forward to grind against the other again in a tiny, desperate motion. There’s a catch of friction, the sound of Hayato gasping himself into relief, and then he flexes his foot to push against Takeshi and Takeshi can feel the wave cresting in him, the strain that has been climbing along his spine surging to the height of inevitability as his fingers tense at Hayato’s hip. He moans something made unintelligible against the heat of Hayato still against his tongue, presses his whole body as close as he can get, and Hayato’s hand tenses against the back of his neck in the moment just before the wave breaks and swamps Takeshi’s awareness with heat. He’s shuddering, Takeshi knows from a great distance, his entire body quivering with uncontrollable tremors, but all he feels is pleasure, satisfaction rushing out into him until he can feel it tingling in the very tips of his fingers and heavy in the weight of his eyelids.

Takeshi moves after a few seconds, while he’s still caught in the white-warm shimmer of pleasure in his veins; it’s not much, only enough to draw his head back and swallow his mouth clear and to ease his fingers out of Hayato, but Hayato shudders with the friction, and that draws Takeshi’s attention back to the angle of Hayato’s hip and the draw of the shadows that cling to his skin. He ducks in close again, fits his mouth against the heat there, and when he shuts his eyes this time it’s with no intention of moving again for some time. Hayato’s fingers are gentle in his hair, stroking the strands back from Takeshi’s face now instead of guiding his movement, and Takeshi reaches up to drape his arm across Hayato’s stomach as if he’s trying to take the place of the blankets tangled underneath them and therefore remove any need for movement.

Hayato lets them stay in silence for a few minutes, while the speeding adrenaline fades a little from Takeshi’s blood to make space for the languid heat of bone-deep physical satisfaction, and even when he does speak it’s slow, unhurried, like he’s talking to himself as much as to Takeshi. “Are you planning on getting off me any time soon?”

“No,” Takeshi says into Hayato’s skin. If he purses his lips he can fit a kiss against the other’s hip. “You didn’t let me touch you before.”

Hayato’s fingers slide against the back of his neck. “So you’re going to make up for it now?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums. “Yep.”

He can feel the way Hayato laughs under the weight of his smile.


	14. Comfortable

It’s good to be home.

Hayato has nothing against Italy. It’s warm, which he always likes, and while sightseeing may not be his favorite occupation they spent the last two weeks doing very little of that and far more of what he vastly prefers. Their hotel suite was spacious, and brightly lit, and outfitted with a shower and mirrors he is sorry to leave behind. But even with the interminable flight weighing heavy in his limbs and the sunlight of the day lost to the length of their travel, Hayato is glad to be home.

“You look good,” he says now against the slope of Takeshi’s neck, without bothering to pull away to make the sounds more coherent. He has Takeshi pushed up alongside the door of their bedroom; their luggage is still in the hallway, suitcases and bags dropped inside the front door to be handled later. Right now Hayato has other, far more important priorities. “Takeshi.”

“You keep saying that,” Takeshi says, the threat of a laugh purring in the back of his throat. He’s slouched back against the wall, the easy angle of his shoulders dropping him low enough to undo the advantage of height he has on Hayato when they’re both standing upright; his shirt is rumpled, his suit jacket long since stripped off and currently dropped atop the luggage just within Hayato’s view, if he moves to look. He doesn’t. He has better things to look at. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says. His fingers skim the wrinkles in the white fabric where it’s barely tucked into Takeshi’s slacks, come up to ghost against the sleeves rolled up to the other’s elbows; he has no idea where Takeshi’s tie has gone, can’t actually confirm that they remembered to collect it from around the bedpost in their hotel room. He _does_ know it’s been absent for the last several hours, at least, knows furthermore that he’s been staring at the open collar of Takeshi’s shirt for the entirety of the last leg of their flight home, and finally knows that any more time spent away from the hollow at Takeshi’s throat is a loss not to borne. “It’s just a shirt.” He closes his fingers on the folds of fabric at Takeshi’s waist and tugs; the cloth slides smoothly free of the other’s waistband, collects in Hayato’s reaching fingers, and Takeshi huffs a sound that is a little bit a laugh and a little bit a moan. “You don’t really need it, do you?”

“No,” Takeshi says instantly. “You’re right, I don’t need it.”

Hayato smiles, presses a kiss against the edge of Takeshi’s jawline. “That’s what I thought.” His fingers trace against the loose hem of the other’s shirt, drag up as he follows it around Takeshi’s waist; the shirt slides loose obediently, as willing to follow the suggestion of his fingers as Takeshi is. “I think you’d look better out of it.”

Takeshi takes a breath; Hayato can feel it thrum in the other’s throat, can hear the audible effort swallowing costs him. “Aren’t you tired?” he suggests, his voice so deliberately innocent Hayato almost believes it to be, _would_ believe it if he didn’t have a decade of experience to say that Takeshi is never innocent and least of all when he sounds so. “You always hate travelling.”

“Yeah,” Hayato allows. Takeshi’s shirt is free of his slacks, now; he sets his fingers at the bottom button, starts to work the fabric open from bottom to top. “You know I do.”

“Right,” Takeshi agrees, sounding a little distracted and a lot overheated. He has a hand around Hayato’s shoulder, his fingers are working into the other’s hair, but his other hand is sliding under the weight of Hayato’s coat, pushing against the fabric to make space for his hand along the curve of the other’s waist. “We’re home now.” His shirt comes open, the edges of it falling free over his chest; Hayato purrs satisfaction, fits his palms to the edge of Takeshi’s collarbones against his undershirt, and Takeshi turns his head to catch the part of his lips at the corner of Hayato’s mouth. “You should...you should get comfortable.”

“Should I?” Hayato asks. He’s attempting innocence, aiming for mild confusion as if he doesn’t understand Takeshi’s suggestion, but his throat betrays him, turns the words into a purr so shadowy he can’t even attempt to claim anything other than interest. He rocks his hips forward against Takeshi’s, lets the slick fabric of his slacks catch against the other’s; Takeshi huffs another laugh, his hand catching at the small of Hayato’s back to guide him closer, and Hayato turns in to meet him, to offer his mouth to the heat of Takeshi’s exhales. “By myself, or did you have something else in mind?”

“Hayato,” Takeshi whines, and tips closer, reaching for a kiss as Hayato leans away and out of range. Takeshi hesitates, blinking himself into focus on Hayato’s face, and Hayato starts to grin, amusement giving away his attempt at teasing even as he dodges backwards from Takeshi’s next attempt.

“I _am_ tired,” Hayato demurs, but he’s grinning, the claim comes out as amusement instead of sincerity, and Takeshi laughs bright disbelief just shy of his mouth. Hayato doesn’t try to pull away when Takeshi’s fingers catch at the back of his head, doesn’t resist when Takeshi pulls him in closer, and by the time Takeshi is humming heat against his lips he has his hand at the back of the other’s neck too, is holding Takeshi to him as much as the other is bracing him in place. Takeshi hums satisfaction, licks gently into Hayato’s mouth, and Hayato catches his teeth at Takeshi’s lip in return, pressing deliberately gentle friction against his mouth like he’s been thinking about doing all day. They’re tipping back towards the wall, Hayato pushing and Takeshi pulling, and for a long moment they’re caught just like that, lost in the easy slide of lips and tongues over each other.

“You must be tired too,” Hayato manages, once they’ve broken apart for a moment in a futile attempt to catch their breath. Takeshi’s eyes are half-lidded, his focus tangled on the shape of Hayato’s mouth; Hayato can feel the other’s fingers working against his hair, tensing idle pressure against the strands like Takeshi is trying to find a better hold. “We should definitely go to bed, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, ducking his head into what could possibly count as a nod. “Yes, let’s. Let’s go to bed.”

“Glad you agree,” Hayato tells him, and pushes close to crush a kiss against Takeshi’s mouth again. “Take your shoes off.”

He pulls away while Takeshi is still slumped against the wall, taking advantage of the heat that eases the other’s hold loose on his hair and waist. Takeshi lets him go with only a whimper of protest, and that dies to silence as soon as he sees Hayato shrugging his jacket off to drape it over the back of a chair. The shoes take a bit longer -- the laces require the use of hands, since Hayato isn’t willing to do them the abuse of toeing them off the way Takeshi does -- but there is an advantage to the delay, namely that by the time Hayato is turning to the bed Takeshi is sitting on the sheets already, one leg folded next to him and the other dangling over the edge. He still has his shirt on, undone down the front and pushed up at the sleeves; when Hayato moves in towards him Takeshi reaches out for him with a smile as warm as all the Italian sunshine they left behind.

“Hayato,” he says, the word pointless except for the heat he grants it, except for the way he’s wrapping his arms around Hayato’s waist to draw him in close between the angle of his knees. Takeshi’s smiling still, ducking his head in to press his forehead against Hayato’s chest; Hayato can feel the heat on his slow exhale as Takeshi’s arms settle around his hips to hold him in place. “I love you so much.”

“I hope so,” Hayato says. His hands find their way into Takeshi’s hair, slide down the back of his neck; Takeshi dips his head forward, sighs satisfaction against Hayato’s stomach, and Hayato fits his fingertips under Takeshi’s collar to find out the flex of his shoulders, to trace against the curve of his spine. “It would be a shame if you got tired of me after only a few weeks.”

Takeshi shakes his head without looking up. “I’ll never be tired of you,” he says.

“Sap,” Hayato tells him, bringing a knee up to fit alongside Takeshi’s hip on the bed. “You’re an embarrassment to be around.” He rocks forward, pushing Takeshi backwards towards the sheets, and Takeshi tips back obediently, drawing Hayato down with him by the hold he has on the other’s waist. Hayato pushes them down, lets Takeshi fall over the mattress completely before rolling sideways and giving the other a chance to slide farther up over the sheets.

“You’ll be like this when we’re fifty,” he declares, watching the curve of Takeshi’s smile, tracking the gold of Takeshi’s eyes. “A ridiculous romantic who’s too much of an idiot to be embarrassed of yourself.”

“Yep,” Takeshi agrees without any hesitation. He rocks himself up over an elbow, reaches out to curl his fingers under the knot of Hayato’s tie, and Hayato doesn’t lift a hand to push the contact away. “I’ll be like this when we’re a hundred.”

“I bet you will,” Hayato says. Takeshi draws the knot in his tie loose, lets the weight of the silk unfurl across his hands; Hayato reaches up to catch the trailing end and drag the length of it free of his collar. “Decades of marriage and you’ll still be just as hopeless as you are today.”

Takeshi laughs. “Yeah,” he says, his voice dipping warm and helpless as Hayato abandons the tie in favor of reaching for Takeshi’s waist and pushing the thin of his undershirt up the other’s skin. “That sounds right.”

“Idiot,” Hayato tells him, the word slurring to affection on the back of his tongue as he works his hand up under Takeshi’s shirt to press against the warm tremor against his stomach. “Roll over” but he’s leaning in too, enforcing the command with the weight of his mouth to bear Takeshi back over the sheets. Takeshi falls to the support, sprawls out over the familiar width of their bed, and Hayato slides a knee between the other’s thighs so he can rock up over the support and free his hands to push at Takeshi’s shirt. The open edges of it are falling loose already; it’s an easy matter to urge the fabric over the other’s shoulders, to pin the clothing down so Takeshi can draw first one and then the other arm out of it. Hayato tugs the shirt free from under Takeshi’s weight, tossing it aside rather than leaving it to be rumpled under their bodies, and Takeshi falls back against the bed, blinking dark-eyed attention up at Hayato leaning over him. It’s a simple thing to lean in for a kiss, easy to consider and easier done, and Takeshi hums into the contact, arching off the sheets to match the curve of Hayato’s body fitting over him.

“Hayato,” he breathes as Hayato draws back by an inch, turning the other’s name into something so deliberately tender Hayato can feel it shiver electricity down his spine and curl into warmth low in his stomach. Hayato ducks closer, presses his mouth against the line of Takeshi’s jaw, and Takeshi’s hands are seeking out the waistband of his slacks, following the weight of the fabric around to the buckle of the belt holding them in place. Hayato huffs a laugh against the other’s skin but he doesn’t try to pull away; he just pushes closer and presses his nose to Takeshi’s hair to breathe in the scent of home from the strands. It doesn’t make sense that he should smell so familiar -- he’s been using the same hotel soap Hayato has, they’ve barely been in the front door fifteen minutes as yet -- but he does anyway, the soft of his hair is clinging to the same smell that fills the house, the tang of oiled metal and the bite of gunpowder laid over the cool clean of rainwater, the unwavering support of iron, the pieces of their separate lives so tangled together they’ve become one in name as well as in fact. The thought makes Hayato smile against the curve of Takeshi’s throat, curves his lips into the press of a kiss at Takeshi’s skin, and Takeshi is working his belt open, drawing the leather free of the buckle and leaving it to hang loose while his hands slide down to Hayato’s fly instead. Hayato frees a hand from the draw of Takeshi’s waist, catches the end of his own belt to slide it carefully free of his belt loops, and Takeshi works his button open, fingers easing his zipper down with all the care for the other’s clothes Hayato has spent years teaching him to have. It makes Hayato smile, warm against Takeshi’s skin where it can be felt but not seen before he sits back up, curling his belt around itself before reaching out to set it aside on the bedside table while Takeshi’s fingers work his slacks open, unfolding the fabric like he’s opening a present. Hayato looks back to Takeshi’s eyes, watches the other’s mouth go soft and appreciative as he eases Hayato’s slacks just off his hips, and he’s smiling again by the time he’s reaching to imitate Takeshi’s movement and unfasten the other’s belt.

It’s a slow process. Hayato could strip Takeshi down to skin in a matter of minutes, if they were in a hurry, could even just fit his knee high between Takeshi’s thighs and damn the consequences to his clothes; it’s not like this is his only suit, after all, even if it does cling to his hips and the flex of his thighs in a way Hayato has been appreciating for the last several hours. But they’re home now, their surroundings so familiar Hayato’s chest aches with retroactive homesickness, and he doesn’t want to hurry through the process of unfolding Takeshi’s belt from its buckle, or slipping the length of it free of each belt loop in order, or curling the weight of it around the buckle to set aside. Takeshi has caught his mood, or maybe is just feeling the same all-over appreciation of being home; having worked Hayato’s slacks open and loose on his hips he’s stalled there, apparently content to trail his fingers against the clinging elastic of the other’s briefs instead of seeking more direct contact. Hayato is going harder with each drag of Takeshi’s fingers, even the vague contact enough to draw the warmth in him farther into heat, but Takeshi’s hard before he gets his slacks open, the shape of his cock pushing up against the fall of his boxers as soon as Hayato draws his zipper down to free it. Takeshi might be content with careful touches but for Hayato the temptation is too much; he catches at the edge of Takeshi’s boxers, tugs the elastic down enough to make space for his other hand to dip inside and land fingers directly against flushed-hot skin. Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, his hips rock up into the contact, and Hayato purrs appreciation and closes his fingers on the other’s length, drawing up over him in a pull of friction that tenses all Takeshi’s body into a ripple of reaction, a long shuddering arc of sensation drawn out by the simple flex of Hayato’s fingers and the drag of his hand. It makes Hayato laugh, draws him through the motion again, and Takeshi shivers and smiles, reaching up for the loose weight of Hayato’s shirt to close his fingers at the other’s collar. Hayato tilts his head back to give Takeshi a better angle and lets the other’s fingers skim against the line of his throat as he draws up over him again, sliding his grip slow enough that he can fit his fingers into the shape of Takeshi under them.

“There,” Takeshi sighs as the first button of Hayato’s shirt comes free, moving down to the next to unfasten it with far more speed. “That one’s always so hard to undo.”

“It’s easier if you’re used to it,” Hayato tells him, turning his chin back down so he can see the part of Takeshi’s lips as his gaze follows the rhythm of his fingers working Hayato’s shirt open. “If you buttoned your shirts properly you wouldn’t have such a hard time with it.”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, a vague sound of understanding without anything like agreement underneath it. “It’s not as comfortable when it’s buttoned all the way up.”

“It’s not supposed to be comfortable,” Hayato tells him. He drags his hold up against Takeshi’s length once more, trailing his fingertips into lingering contact over the head of the other’s cock before letting him go so he can slide his hands up instead, over the flat of Takeshi’s stomach and under the hem of his undershirt to push the fabric high on the other’s chest. “It’s supposed to be professional. There’s no point in wearing a suit if you’re just going to leave it all rumpled.”

“Ah,” Takeshi says. “Yes.” He doesn’t seem at all convinced, either in his tone or in the quirk of a smile at his mouth; Hayato musters a frown for him, squints suspicion at the other as he pushes Takeshi’s shirt higher and catches the other’s hands to stillness by tangling the fabric around his shoulders.

“You’re not listening,” Hayato accuses, pulling until Takeshi lets the front of Hayato’s shirt go and lifts his arms so Hayato can strip his undershirt off and over his head. “Do you think I can’t tell by now when you’re ignoring me?”

“I’m not,” Takeshi says, emerging from his shirt with his hair haloed into shadow around his face and his mouth tugging at a smile. “I’m listening.”

“You just don’t agree,” Hayato suggests instead, and Takeshi’s smile breaks free in confirmation. “Fine,” he sighs, attempting disdain that he only half manages as Takeshi pushes to sit upright and reaches out to resume his progress down the front of Hayato’s shirt. “What do _you_ think the point of looking all disheveled in a suit is?”

“Mm,” Takeshi hums, ducking his head so Hayato can only see the very corner of his smile, so his breathing gusts warm against the thin fabric of Hayato’s undershirt. “You said I looked good, before.” His eyes come up, his mouth tugging taut at the corner to sparkle suggestion up at Hayato.

“Idiot,” Hayato purrs at him. “You don’t need to look so self-satisfied, taking off your clothes has _always_ been the fastest route to seduction.” He sets his hand at Takeshi’s shoulder, shoves to push him back to the bed; Takeshi falls back laughing, leaving Hayato’s shirt open to flutter against his shoulders.

“I wasn’t really being an idiot, then,” Takeshi says, his shoulders relaxed against the bed and his hands finding their way back to Hayato’s hips, fitting back in against the taut line of the other’s briefs.

“You were,” Hayato tells him, so certain in his claim as to leave no space for competing opinions. He shrugs ostentatiously, making the movement dramatic enough to push his shirt off his shoulders before he catches at the collar and tosses it sideways and out of the way of the sheets. “Did you really think you had to _convince_ me into fucking you as soon as we got in the front door?”

Takeshi’s eyelashes flutter, press dark and heavy against his cheekbones for a moment. Hayato can hear the way his breathing catches, can see the shift of his shoulders as he stalls on an inhale and rocks his hips up in the same movement. His skin is gold in the familiar light, the smooth lines of his body unencumbered by the distraction of clothing from the curve of his throat all the way down to the top edge of his hipbones under the weight of his undone slacks. “I just wanted to make sure,” he suggests, his mouth curving into a smile as his eyes come open, as the weight of his hands urges Hayato closer.

“Like I said,” Hayato tells him. “You didn’t need to try.” He slides backwards, breaking free of Takeshi’s hold as he goes and buying himself the space to catch at Takeshi’s clothes, to curl his fingers into the gap between waistband and hip so he can drag the fabric down and free of the other’s skin. “You should have known that.”

“It didn’t hurt anything,” Takeshi says, rocking his hips up so Hayato can pull his clothing off. His thighs are tense as they come free of his slacks, his cock flushing hard towards his stomach like it’s straining for contact with Takeshi’s skin. “I didn’t mind.”

“That’s because you slept the whole way back,” Hayato tells him, sliding back towards the end of the bed as he pulls Takeshi’s clothing off his legs. “On my shoulder, to be precise.”

“You have very comfortable shoulders,” Takeshi offers, drawing his feet free of the weight of his slacks puddled in Hayato’s grip. “And I was sleepy.”

“I’m sure you were.” Hayato shakes Takeshi’s slacks out, drapes them over the foot of the bed and tosses his boxers to the floor; with their loss Takeshi is left almost entirely stripped where he’s lying over the sheets. Hayato pauses for a moment to let his attention slide down across the shivering anticipation in the other’s body, his gaze clinging to the heat of Takeshi’s cock as he catches at one of the other’s socks and peels it off without looking. “ _I_ was wide awake with my half-dressed husband next to me and not much to do except think about what to do after we landed.”

“Oh,” Takeshi says. Hayato casts the sock aside, inverts the other over Takeshi’s foot; they drop over the edge of the mattress to join the rest of their clothes on the floor. Takeshi huffs a laugh at this final loss before reaching up overhead and catching his fingers at the headboard; Hayato can see his arm flex a moment before Takeshi’s entire body goes taut as he stretches himself into comfort with as much casual grace as a cat. Hayato’s eyelashes flutter, suddenly far heavier than they had been before, and when he opens his mouth for an exhale the air comes out heavy and low in his throat, purring itself inside-out into a groan as audible as it is unintentional. Takeshi sags back to the bed and blinks himself into focus on Hayato’s expression; the wide bright of his stare would almost pass as innocent, if his mouth weren’t so tight on a held-back smile. “That must have been really hard for you.”

“You are such a _tease_ ,” Hayato growls, and Takeshi starts to laugh even before Hayato has tipped in over him to brace a hand at his shoulder and pin the other down to the mattress. “I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Takeshi tells him, an arm coming up to drape around Hayato’s shoulders as Takeshi’s back arches him into a curve, as he parts his mouth and flutters his eyelashes in a clear plea for a kiss. “Sorry, Hayato.”

“No you’re not,” Hayato tells him, and gives Takeshi the kiss he’s smiling for. Takeshi goes immediately pliant to the contact, lets Hayato hold him down to the bed with the weight of his body and the press of his mouth, and Hayato reaches sideways without looking to fumble for the bottle on the bedside table left unused for the past two weeks in their absence. It’s easy to find, still right where it always is, and Hayato is thumbing the lid open before he manages to convince himself to pull away from catching Takeshi’s breathing on his tongue and nipping pressure against the soft curve of the other’s lower lip. Takeshi lets him go, the hand he’s managed to tangle into Hayato’s hair easing away without the other needing to give him a command, and Hayato abandons his hold on Takeshi’s shoulder in favor of pushing himself up onto an elbow so he can bring both hands to bear on the problem of maneuvering the slippery bottle.

“Hayato,” Takeshi breathes, the name a little bit a plea and mostly just encouragement, and Hayato glances up at him as slick liquid spills over his fingers and drips a handful of shining droplets across the rhythm of breathing in Takeshi’s chest. Takeshi is watching him, his eyes dark and his mouth flushed, and Hayato wants to kiss him again, wants to abandon the movement of his hands in favor of leaning back in and catching the soft of Takeshi’s lip between his teeth, of pushing close enough to taste the heat of Takeshi’s mouth against his tongue.

He doesn’t. Instead, “Takeshi,” he purrs, swinging the name into singsong mockery of the heat in Takeshi’s voice, and closes the lid of the bottle again before dropping it to the sheets. He shifts his arm and braces himself farther off the bed so he can reach between them, can fit his slippery fingers under the open front of his slacks and against the radiant heat of Takeshi’s bare skin. Takeshi slides his legs open wider at the touch, offering the line of his thigh like an invitation, and Hayato takes it, gliding his fingertips up the warmth of Takeshi’s leg to watch the way the other’s mouth curves on anticipation, to see the way Takeshi’s shoulders shudder on adrenaline as Hayato’s touch brushes against his entrance.

“I had plenty of time to think about this,” Hayato explains as he shifts the angle of his wrist and presses the suggestion of friction against Takeshi with a fingertip. “While you were sleeping through the flight.” He pushes inside Takeshi’s body carefully, taking a deliberately gentle stroke with his lube-slick finger, but Takeshi doesn’t so much as shiver at the contact; he moans instead, satisfaction spreading his knees wider apart, and Hayato pushes deeper, watches Takeshi’s attention to the part of Hayato’s lips go dreamy and unfocused as Hayato starts to work into him.

“I thought about just fingering you open,” Hayato goes on, his chin coming up of its own accord so he’s looking down from under the weight of his lashes at Takeshi, so he can feel the strain of appreciation tight in the line of his throat. “Maybe sucking you off, too, while I was at it.” He curls his finger to press inside Takeshi and the other jolts with the contact, his spine curving him into an arc of reaction for a moment. “Maybe not.” Hayato draws his hand back, thrusts in again in a long drag of movement. “Maybe just fingerfuck you until you came without me even touching your dick.”

“Ah,” Takeshi breathes, lashes fluttering, back arching. His hand comes up, finds out the seam of Hayato’s undershirt along his shoulder; Hayato doesn’t pull away, lets Takeshi follow the line of the fabric up to the curve of his neck, lets Takeshi’s fingers fit against the top of his spine so he can feel the other’s reaction telegraphed all down his back as much as clenching around the drag of his fingers. Takeshi’s other hand comes out, his touch ghosting at the top edge of Hayato’s slacks; Hayato knows what’s coming, doesn’t move away as Takeshi’s fingertips catch and drag over the elastic fabric stretched taut against the heat of his cock. When Takeshi swallows it’s hard enough for Hayato to hear clearly. “What about you?”

“Yeah.” Hayato draws his hand back, tries a second finger; it’s more of a stretch than the first, but he’s going slowly, and Takeshi’s as willing to open up to two as he was to one. “That was my problem too.” Takeshi’s abandoned the glancing touches against his cock to push Hayato’s slacks down, intention writing itself in the force of his hand; Hayato lets him, even rocks up and away so he can come up onto his knees to make Takeshi’s work easier. Takeshi’s other hand draws away from his neck, pushes deliberately against Hayato’s slacks, and Hayato spreads his fingers barely apart to push Takeshi open and see the way his mouth drops open on heat at the friction.

“Too bad,” Hayato allows, taking over pushing his clothes off his hips one-handed so he can work his feet free of the tangle of fabric with more dexterity than Takeshi’s distracted touch can manage. “It would have been fun to watch you go to pieces just from me touching you.” His slacks go over the end of the bed to join Takeshi’s, albeit with less care than he showed before; Hayato’s attention is fraying, everything other than the gold-washed heat of Takeshi under him fading into less and less importance as he continues. He doesn’t even look as his drags his socks off, doesn’t see where they end up; they’re out of the way, is what’s most important, and then Takeshi’s hands are on his hips over his briefs and drawing him in closer and down to where he’s working Takeshi open around his fingers.

“But I didn’t want to have to wait myself,” Hayato decides, again, putting voice to the decision he reached sometime during their flight over the ocean, when the heat of Takeshi pressed close against his arm was distracting all his thoughts into impatient desire. “So this is what you’re getting instead.” He slides his fingers free, feels how easy the motion comes; Takeshi whimpers at the drag, his body drawing tight as if to keep Hayato’s touch where it is, and Hayato grins with a hot satisfaction he couldn’t hold back if he tried. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, sounding less satisfied and more desperate; Hayato barely spares a moment to appreciate the part of Takeshi’s lips and the dark shadows in his eyes before he pulls back to strip his undershirt up and over his head. Takeshi moves as fast as he does; by the time Hayato is casting his shirt aside Takeshi is pulling his underwear off his hips, urging the fabric down Hayato’s thighs to leave the heat of his cock unrestrained by the elastic of the cloth. Hayato tries to kick his foot free, catches his ankle at the fabric as he makes the attempt, and has to fall sideways over the mattress before he can catch his balance. Takeshi’s laugh is sudden, bright and sunshine-warm, and then he’s moving to match, reaching up to loop his arm around Hayato’s shoulders and pull him down into a kiss. Hayato groans against Takeshi’s mouth, his focus dissolving to the friction, and Takeshi rolls sideways over him, inverting their positions so it’s the length of his body bearing Hayato down over the sheets. His cock catches at Hayato’s hip, digs in hard against the resistance, and Hayato grabs for Takeshi’s hips to hold him where he is, to draw him closer and press their bodies flush together. Takeshi grinds down against him, a half-formed attempt at a thrust stalled out by the tangle of their legs, but the pressure digs his thigh in against Hayato’s cock, too, sends a surge of pleasure jolting up Hayato’s spine and drawing his exhale into a groan of appreciation even as Takeshi draws away and rocks back over his heels.

“Wait,” Hayato protests as he loses his grip on Takeshi’s hips. He has to push up on an elbow to make another attempt at the other. “Wait, come back here.”

“I am,” Takeshi says, dragging the last of Hayato’s clothing free and pushing it aside. It might end up on the edge of the bed, it might have slid over and off to the floor; Hayato’s not sure, isn’t paying close enough attention to be certain, and then Takeshi is moving to fit his knees against the outside of Hayato’s hips, rocking forward over the other as he braces one hand against the mattress. Hayato can reach his hips now, and does, spreading his fingers wide to hold Takeshi in place, and they’re both looking down as Takeshi reaches between them to brace his fingers at the base of Hayato’s cock and hold him steady as Takeshi rocks his weight down. There’s a catch of friction, a moment of shifting into alignment, but then Takeshi takes a breath that sounds like certainty, and when he starts to ease himself down Hayato can feel the heat of the other’s body opening to the press of his cock.

“ _God_ ,” Hayato breathes, fingers seizing tight on Takeshi’s hips, but Takeshi is still moving, lowering himself in one drawn-out motion as his eyelashes flutter closed and his throat works on a faint, breathless moan. His hand comes out, his palm pressing hard to brace at Hayato’s shoulder; Hayato can feel the catch of the other’s ring against his skin, the cool of the metal warmed to the same heat as Takeshi’s body by hours spent pressed close to it.

“Takeshi,” Hayato says, and eases his hold on Takeshi’s hip, unwinds the tension in his fingers into guidance instead of force. Takeshi finishes out the first motion, his hips pressing flush to Hayato’s, and for a moment they’re both still, Takeshi with his eyes shut and his throat humming on half-voiced reaction. Hayato can feel the heat of Takeshi’s body unwinding up his spine, aching appreciation through all his blood; the relief of the friction is nearly painful, after the hours of anticipation that have come before. Hayato’s hips come up on their own accord, push hard against Takeshi as if to thrust himself deeper, and Takeshi offers a moan that is almost a laugh in response, his mouth curving into a smile as he tips his weight forward over Hayato’s shoulders. His mouth is warm against Hayato’s, fitting the familiar shape of a kiss against the other’s lips, and then he starts to move, drawing his weight up so he can sink back down onto the heat of Hayato’s cock. The movement makes Hayato growl appreciation far in the back of his throat, brings his hips rocking up in instinctive attempt at more friction, and Takeshi doesn’t pull away, just settles his elbow over the edge of Hayato’s shoulder to keep himself balanced as he finds a rhythm for his movement.

“I love you,” he offers to the curve of Hayato’s mouth, his eyes so nearly shut all Hayato can see of them is the smudged dark of lashes laid over Takeshi’s cheekbones. He’s breathing harder, the rocking movement of his body falling into a pattern that promises satisfaction for the growling desire hot under Hayato’s skin; if Hayato arches his back he can press himself flush against Takeshi’s chest, can feel the drag of their bodies fitting together as Takeshi moves over him.

“I know you do,” Hayato says, and lets his right hand on Takeshi’s hip ease so he can drag his fingers over the curve of the other’s body and across the flat of his stomach. Takeshi trembles with the touch, his body tensing with anticipation, and then Hayato winds his fingers into a grip at the base of Takeshi’s cock and he can feel the ripple of pleasure that runs through the other’s body and spills into a moan at his lips. He purrs himself into a smile, steadies his hand, strokes up in a smooth slide over Takeshi’s length. “Tell me again.”

“I love you,” Takeshi says immediately, the words falling over themselves as if he’s desperate for Hayato to hear them. “You’re so wonderful and I’ve loved you for so long, Hayato, I’m so.” Hayato rocks his hips up and tightens his grip at once and Takeshi cuts himself off into a shudder, his body clenching tight around Hayato’s cock for a moment. “I’m so happy I’m with you.”

“Yeah,” Hayato says, and he had intended it as a teasing question but it drops off into certainty, melting over the heat rising up his spine and tensing in his fingers. “Me too.”

“Hayato,” Takeshi says, and he’s drawing back by an inch now, blinking himself into an attempt at focus that still leaves his eyes melting into caramel. “Hayato, I love you.”

“I know,” Hayato tells him, and tightens his fingers at Takeshi’s hip, presses his thumb against the slick at the head of Takeshi’s cock. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing dropping lower and hotter with each inhale; Takeshi is tensing around him with each thrust he takes up, with each rocking movement Takeshi takes down, and Hayato can see the other’s attention sliding out-of-focus on his face, drifting along his cheekbones and his eyes before landing hot against the part of his mouth. Hayato licks his lips, watches Takeshi’s lashes flutter. “Takeshi.”

“Mm,” Takeshi manages, his mouth open on his breathing and his throat trembling with too much heat for coherency.

“Takeshi,” Hayato repeats, and braces his hand at Takeshi’s hip as he strokes hard over him. Takeshi jerks, his shoulders curving as his breathing breaks into a whimper, and Hayato can feel the strain of anticipation forming itself along Takeshi’s spine, can feel the flex of the other’s body drawing tighter around him as he presses his fingers closer. “I love you _so_ much.” The words vibrate in the back of his throat, turning themselves inside-out on heat, and Takeshi’s attention jumps to Hayato’s eyes, his lips parting on the same momentary shock that always accompanies this particular declaration. Hayato takes a breath, and tightens his hold, and when he jerks up with his hand he can see Takeshi’s expression go slack with relief, can see the heat haze over the other’s gaze a moment before his cock jerks and he spills over Hayato’s stomach. His head is dropping, his shoulders hunching, but he’s tensing around Hayato too, his body pulsing through waves of pleasure as he comes, and the tension collecting along Hayato’s spine eases, sensation overflowing into the promise of satisfaction. Takeshi shifts his weight, rocks back onto the press of Hayato’s cock into him, and Hayato comes in a rush, Takeshi’s name spilling out of his throat as white washes out his vision and overcomes his attention. He’s trembling, maybe, his body quivering through each jolt of pleasure, but Takeshi is warm against him and around him, and that’s all Hayato really needs.

Takeshi waits to move until the last of the aftershocks have left Hayato boneless and heat-stunned across the bed, but even then when he draws back Hayato shudders with the friction, his fingers tensing at Takeshi’s hip as the other pulls away to topple sideways over the sheets. Takeshi laughs, curling himself in close against Hayato’s side without consideration for the sweat-damp coating their skin,and Hayato turns to meet him with as little hesitation.

“I love you,” he says again, just for good measure, pressing the words to the dark of Takeshi’s hair as Takeshi kisses idle warmth against his shoulder.

Hayato can feel Takeshi’s smile. “I know,” he says, and turns his head up to smile incandescent at the other. “I love you too, Hayato.”

Hayato shifts his hold at Takeshi’s hip. “Come here,” he purrs, and Takeshi tips closer still, arching in until they’re pressed together from ankle to shoulder and sharing heat between them. Hayato turns his head for a kiss, and Takeshi shifts his hand to tangle with Hayato’s fingers, and when their mouths come together Hayato can’t tell whose touch is warmer.

Their wedding rings are warm between their fingers.


End file.
